


The Egyptian Queen Redux

by VeryBadMau



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Art History, Blow Job, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fellatio, Fingering, Food Kink, Oral Sex, artistic woes, attempt at making smut sound poetic, kabazzah technique, more contemporary artist name drops than you can shake a stick at, painting during sex, pompoir, worship kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-13 17:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryBadMau/pseuds/VeryBadMau
Summary: When Pegasus painted Cyndia, it was as though he had taken a photograph. When he paints Isis, he can't do her justice, and it frustrates him to no end. Just what is he missing? In other words: a story where Pegasus tries to paint Isis like one of his French girls. Sightshipping, past Roseshipping. M rating due to some sexual content, but the story is mostly about Pegasus having artistic woes.





	1. FROM DUSK TILL DAWN

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was really supposed to be a one-shot with 60% sexytimes and 40% humor, but as I kept writing, it somehow became a three-shot commentary on contemporary art through the eye of Pegasus, mixed in with humor and a little bit of sexytimes. All in all, I think it turned out better this way.
> 
> The original inspiration for this comes from hearing my husband recall growing up with his father as an artist and his mother as a dancer. The female body was never a taboo image, as much of the walls in his parents' house, as well as our own today, have an image of Venus in some fashion. In their household, the phrase is thus: "If we did not have women, we would not have art." I do not doubt that Pegasus has the same maxim.
> 
> I also wanted to write some Sightshipping goodness, so there's that too.
> 
> Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are copywritten to Kazuki Takahashi and Konami.

* * *

 

"No, no, no, no,  _no_!" Pegasus growls with his head hung low, cradling his head in his hands as the brush falls from his fingers. "This isn't right at all!"

"Do I need to change something in my posture?" Isis asks carefully, looking over her shoulder with some concern.

"No,  _no_ , Madame Muad'Dib, it has nothing to do with you," Pegasus sighs, slumping further into his hands and refusing to meet her gaze. " _I_  just can't  _capture_  you properly. It's been driving me mad for months."

"... May I see this one?"

"If you can tolerate the sight of my clumsy attempt," Pegasus grimaces, still refusing to look at her or the canvas. He rolls his hand inward, telling her to come over. She moves in a smooth manner, as though she is floating to where he sits, and takes a seat on his lap to observe his work. She holds her chin in her hand and hums while he buries his head in her shoulder out of embarrassment, placing a hand to the curve of her lower back.

"You are far too harsh on yourself," Isis finally says, cradling the back of his neck with her hand, massaging the tension with her fingers. "I think it looks fine."

"That's the problem!" Pegasus says, summoning the nerve to look into her eyes. "It can't  _just_  be fine because  _you_  are not  _just fine_!"

Before she can ask him to specify, he gingerly cradles her cheek with his hand as the other rubs circles on her back.

" _You_  are  _divine,_  and  _that_ ," Pegasus points to the portrait, "does not do you any justice."

"You're being dramatic."

"No, I'm being a serious artist," Pegasus says. He takes his hand off her face and leans off to the side of the chair. Isis stands as she feels him slipping and watches him fall, softly, on his back to the lush patch of grass below, covering his eyes (or rather, one eye and one eye socket) with his forearm while the other arm drapes over his stomach.

" _T_ _his_  is being dramatic."

"You're acting ridiculous," Isis claims, tittering with the words. She kneels down to meet him and rests on her hip alongside him, the loose sleeves of her crème dress flowing with the passing breeze as she casually snaps one of his suspenders against his chest. He sighs deeply and drops his forearm from his face, moving the hand to intertwine with hers as he stares up at her. He cannot help but think of the ocean at the horizon as he looks into her eyes, bright, glistening, refreshing and awe inspiring to behold. The only thing that matched their beauty was the smile at her lips, a more common sight these days compared to their first meeting in Egypt. It felt like a lifetime ago...

"See, that's what I'm talking about," Pegasus began with a small smile. "I can paint the  _shape_  of you, but I can't capture  _that_." He gestures with the other hand in a circle about her face.

" _Any_  of that," he continues. "What's on that canvas might be passing material for the Royal College, but it simply will not do by my standards."

"The standards of the mighty Pegasus exceed that of the world's leading art institution?" she asks with a cocked brow. "Isn't your degree's major in business with a  _minor_  in art?"

Pegasus gasps as though struck through the heart with a spear, grabbing the front of his crème blouse in a bunch around his chest.

"You wound me so!" He tosses his head to the side and the other hand goes limp in hers. "You earth science majors are so heartless!"

" _Archaeology_  with an emphasis in Egyptology," she corrects him with a small smirk. "And my minor was mathematics."

"Agh,  _numbers_! The mortal enemy of the fine arts!" he gasps, before blinking rapidly in realization. "... Mathematics, you say? I swear I would have pegged it for history or philosophy, no?"

"I had enough of that in my personal time," she whispers, fingers brushing over her collar where the Torque once rested. "But if you want me to entertain philosophy, I remember Descartes had claimed certainty could be found in mathematics. In that way, it was a welcome distraction for me in those days."

"More distracting than me?" Pegasus asks with a sure smile. She leans down until her nose touches his.

"You weren't a distraction back then; you were a  _headache,_ " she draws out the word, lips so close to his own, tempting him.

"And what am I to you  _now_?" he asks with a grin that rivals that of the Cheshire Cat. Her eyelashes flutter against his cheek as her lips barely brush against his, a chaste kiss.

"My loyal steed, the majestic Pegasus, he who carries the weight of the gods." Her tone mocks him lightly, but her eyes speak with affection.

"I serve to carry the weight of only one goddess," he interjects, wanting so much more in that moment than her lips on his, hands reaching for her hips and urging her to sit astride him. She obliges him with a low sound in her throat, almost a moan when she moves her hands to his hair and brushes the silver strands aside as she straddles his waist.

"And such a fine steed you are," she purrs, moving her hands from his head to his blouse, undoing the buttons to reveal his chest. "Well bred with a sure stance, but you lack discipline."

He raises a brow at that statement, and wonders if she's hiding the riding crop somewhere among his art supplies. Are they going to play  _that_  game?

" _I'm_  undisciplined? In what way?" Pegasus teases, fingers moving in a spidery motion up her lap, edging the fabric upwards to reveal the bronze thighs underneath. She stops them in their tracks and holds them to either side of his head, and he cannot help but chuckle in anticipation. Oh,  _yes_ , it was this game!

"You speak out of turn..."

"Guilty."

"You touch without asking..."

"Oh, my, that is  _quite_  a considerable offense."

"And you've been most depreciative of someone very important to me."

He opens his mouth for a rehearsed retort, but the words die in his throat and the lust fades as he furrows his brow in confusion, then distress, and finally, outrage.

"I would never speak ill of your brothers!" he shouts with conviction. "Who would tell you something like that? Who would accuse me of such—"

"I'm not talking about them, Pegasus," she says softly, resting her forehead to his with a solemn smile, lifting her hands from his wrists and cupping his face. "You've been far too critical regarding your artwork. I won't stand to hear you berate  _yourself_  any longer."

He shuts his eye and grits his teeth, as though he was slapped, and turns away from her.

"Isis, you don't understand..."

"I understand enough to know I won't tolerate anymore  _whinging_  from you on the matter, much less insulting yourself so needlessly," Isis says with finality, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand. "You're upset because you think you can do better work, yes?"

"... Perhaps," he confesses with pursed lips, still refusing to look at her and placing his attention to a blade of grass beside his head.

"You've never struck me as one to give up so easily, and certainly not on your art. You say something is missing, but you can't capture it? I propose this: instead of  _lamenting_  on your failures, perhaps it would do you some good to revisit the fundamentals and work from there. All fine crafts require consistent practice. Perhaps there is a step you are glancing over without realizing it."

Pegasus' eye softens at the words with a hum. There is something to her hypothesis. He had been so intent on capturing her in a  _portrait_  that the thought of revisiting other methods hadn't crossed his mind. He had trapped his aspirations in a tunnel where he should have been pulling inspiration from wells.

"Back to basics, hm?" he says thoughtfully, noting the movement of the grass and clouds in the wind. "It has been a while since I've done any intensive drafting with charcoal. I can still remember the day I sketched my first nude."

"Were you nervous?"

"There was a sense of anticipation before the model arrived, yes. Mind you, I like to think I was more mature than everyone else in the room, but I was still quite young when it took place. Once I put the charcoal to paper, it all flowed so naturally from my fingertips, the jitters went away."

"Jitters?" Isis asks. Pegasus realizes the word may not have had a direct translation into Arabic, and tries to find the correct term as he connects the shapes of the clouds above to particular animals.

"Anxiety," he specifies. "Adjusting your mind to focusing on the finer details, seeing a stranger in that fashion. It's all done in a professional setting, but I suppose we Americans still have some Victorian tendencies towards nudity in the beginning. Yet as the sessions go along, so does the nuance. As an artist, there is an expectation to still be passionate about the subject, but you develop a numbness to it in some manners as well. It's a difficult paradox to explain."

"So you're completely numb to  _this_?"

Pegasus' attention shifts from the white of the clouds and the blue of the sky to behold the expanse of mocha flesh before him. When had she dropped the top of her dress around her waist?

"Oh,  _Isis_ ," he shivers, trailing his hands up her waist and savoring the warmth of her breasts against his palms. "I could  _never_  be numb to  _this_."

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

He reviews the supplies in his studio, taking inventory of what he did and didn't have. If he truly is going to work from square one, he needs the proper tools. He is loathe to admit it, but he has allowed his skills to stagnate over the last couple of years, falling into a rut for the sake of comfort. It is an absolute tragedy to his hands and eye for the lack of exercise, and worst of all, a great injustice to his heart. He needs to relearn in order to innovate; he needs to go back to basics if he is to capture the essence of his muse.

It certainly didn't get any more basic than the contours of a nude, of which Isis is a willing model. The darkness of the charcoal blends with little effort to her kohl-lined eyes, but Pegasus laments that the limited pallet cannot bring out the full potential before he chastises himself. It is not the medium nor the model that determines the outcome; it is his eye and his hand, which makes it all the more frustrating when he looks over the completed piece and finds himself unsatisfied. He is fortunate Isis has patience in spades, more than content to allow him the opportunity to try again, and again, and again, throughout different poses and mediums.

He has the money for the supplies and the willingness to experiment, but time proves to be the most precious resource. Isis cannot visit as frequently as he would like, and she is coming up on the last week of her vacation before she must go back to Egypt. He would never ask of her to abandon her career, her passions, her family, for his selfish needs, but he cannot eliminate the sound of a ticking clock in the back of his mind as he readies himself in his studio.

He slaps himself with both hands to steel his nerves. No excuses. If he cannot capture everything in real time, then he must prepare himself to practice in her absence. However, he  _still_  has a week with Isis, and he is determined to commit all details to memory not through his eye, but through his hands.

Artists are often stereotyped to having a carnal rapport with their models, and Pegasus cannot find it in himself to disagree as he stands behind Isis, fingers roaming to her hips and gripping them in desperation while his lips brush against the shell of her ear. He likens her hair to obsidian silk as he brushes the strands away from her neck and nips the sensitive flesh. He savors the feel of taut muscle on her belly and the softness of her own hands covering his, guiding one hand to her breast, a comfortable weight and shape in his palm, as she directs the other hand lower to the junction between her legs.

There is great regret in that no matter how many lifetimes he could live, he knows he will never be able to sketch the beautiful sound that escapes from her lips as he plunges into the moist heat with his fingers, and he cannot hope to paint the flavor that is on his tongue as he lays her down and laps at the swollen pearl above her molten core. Alas, there is  _some_  hope of a detail he can put to canvas, as his hands drift to cradle an ass carved by a Renaissance artist, and lissome thighs move to trap his head in place.

He wonders as he moves atop her and runs his tongue along the hollow of her neck, holds her legs over his hips and relishes the cry that rips at her throat as he enters her, if he can somehow bring forth the sensation of her nails digging into his back. Was there a way to replicate that force, translate that passion to acrylics and oils?

" _Pegasus._ "

He is broken out of his thought at the wanton sound of his name, and upon looking into her eyes, shimmering sapphire with a depth that threatens to swallow him whole, they pull him in like a tide and he is swept away in the moment.

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

He learns to work with the time they have. Both travel frequently for their careers, and Pegasus is more than willing to meet with her in Egypt whenever the chance arises. He hopes the atmosphere of her homeland will lead him to the hidden element he needs. It also does not hurt their relationship when he grows more attentive to her body with each session. With every attempt, he becomes more familiar with every curve, every line, how she moves, how she breathes. He can nearly read her mind by observing the small subtleties in her expressions and how she holds herself throughout the day. It's all so alluring as he finds something new each time, yet it confounds him in the same breadth.

After a year of constant review and practice, Pegasus' work improves, but something is  _still_  missing. It grates him, endlessly, that as he pours over his references and refreshes himself on his art history, he cannot pinpoint the detail of her essence that eludes him so. It is the first time, in a while, where he has not been able to adapt at the drop of a hat. He was a prodigy in the arts, a natural talent from the moment he picked up a brush, so why was he running into so many difficulties now? Had he plateaued somewhere along the line? Or worse, did he lose something along the way?

He recalls his most productive years, before the creation of Duel Monsters and the trip to Egypt, and remembers the only time he experimented with so many styles was when he was with Cyndia.

Pegasus knows that every artist is a plagiarist. Did Pegasus have his own style? Yes, but he thought it horrendously egotistical to think that the origins were his and his alone. A brush can only move in so many ways and there are only so many colors a person can perceive. Every artist is a result of their mentors, their research, their practice, their dedication, and it simply cannot be helped that a technical skill or secret trick to the trade is applied. Every artist that has ever been, and ever will be, will always, inevitably, be doomed to steal from the ways of those who came before them.

Pegasus has no qualms in admitting that Cyndia was, first and foremost, a Gibson girl. Certainly, the paint would carry hints to the soft style of a Manet, the decadence of a Fragonard, and he entertained the loose strokes of a Lautrec now and then, but the lines, the shape, the overall composition and influence was unabashedly Gibson. Cyndia was the Victorian ideal with American sensibilities, independent, confident, never brash or brazen in her actions but still commanded attention. Her frame was a slender hourglass, always having a demure air about her while he stood captivated by her presence.

Isis, too, captivates him, but Isis is not Cyndia. Isis is also independent and exudes confidence with an hourglass figure, but she does not possess the fragile frame or delicate constitution of a Gibson; she is something else entirely. Isis is freer than the bold lines of a Mucha, more grounded than the content of a Dali, and it would not sit well with him to mimic the style of a Gauguin— Isis may have been raised underground, but she is not primitive by any means. "Isis", the very name itself, suggests to surpass the humble realm of mortal man, so he eliminates the style of Rockwell as a possibility.

He tries to depict her as a Picasso,  _once_. Just what the hell was he thinking?

For one year, he tries, and fails, to paint the essence of the Egyptian goddess. He delves deeper into his references, tries to go back farther in time, tries to find some inkling that would guide him to the missing piece, but when he studies ancient fertility figures, he decides Isis is more refined than the squat shapes. He goes through the Renaissance and Neoclassical styles, but finds them stifling.

He explores other mediums. Perhaps she would be better captured as a statue, something of bronze or marble? Surely, they would be materials that would stand the test of time, but he remembers there is a fire to Isis, something behind her eyes that can only come from the sun. In that, the cold, lifeless nature of metal and stone does not suit her.

Damn it, just  _what_  is he missing?! He needed to find it, at  _any_  cost!

"Pegasus..." she moans into the pillow. He massages the beautiful curve of her lumbar with the thumb of his free hand and leans into her ear, slowly rolling his hips forward with the motion.

"Yes, my beloved?"

"Do you really need to paint while we're doing this?"

He glances at the brush in his right hand and looks back to her. She is peeking over her shoulder and he can see a hint of red to her cheeks. A moment of silence, reflection, then:

"Ah... I suppose that  _is_  a bit much, isn't it?"

Perhaps painting during the act of sexual congress is not the correct price to pay.

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

In the end, the answer comes to him not in a book, a session, or a dream, but in a Vegas auction house.

It is an annual charity event in which all proceeds will fund art programs for at-risk youths in the state of Nevada. However, Pegasus' reasons for being there are not quite so charitable. He had gotten word through the Vegas Grapevine that a rare copy of _Funny Bunny_  was up for grabs: a 10.0 GM, limited edition collaborative issue starring a one-off adventure between Funny Bunny and Fritz the Cat, a gem from the 70s and  _certainly_  not meant for children. It is one of 16 copies remaining in the world, and Pegasus is going to walk out of the place with it in hand if it is the last thing he ever does in his life.

"Is Ms. Ishtar not attending the auction with us today?" Croquet asks at his side. The timing is coincidental when she chooses her flight, but Isis opts to meet with them in Vegas and fly with them to the island when their business is done. There is also a genuine curiosity about Pegasus' hometown, and the silver-haired man is more than happy to show her around when he is free. So Croquet is vexed when she is nowhere to be seen.

"She's at the Museum of Fine Art," Pegasus answers with a wave of his hand, glancing over the paintings for the silent auction. "Can you just imagine? She works at a museum in Egypt and then decides she wants to spend her leisure at one in the States. Her thirst for knowledge is insatiable!"

Croquet grunts in a noncommittal tone.

"Also, I told her these events are an absolute  _bore_ ," Pegasus says with a roll of his eye. "All this waiting for one item to come to the floor. Goodness, who would want to pay over $5 million for that abstract expressionist piece of hogwash over there?"

Croquet grunts again, not wanting to say the wrong thing. He knows how Pegasus feels about gestural abstraction. They continue to walk through the auction house with a plan to stay until the comic comes to the main floor, viewing each piece as Pegasus comments and criticizes whatever catches his eye.

"Ah, they have a section dedicated to comics! You see, Croquet, my taste is validated— not that it needed to be,  _of course_ ," Pegasus drawls with a roll of his wrist. "Oh, and they have posters over there! I guess this event is not as pretentious as I inferred."

He hums a tune to himself as he holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger, not giving too much critical thought to the theatrical gallery. Most are vintage prints from America's Golden Age, others are from the Silent Era, and many are modern films bearing signatures from cast members. He did not find them all wholly remarkable, but he admits he would rather have the Art Deco styling of  _Metropolis_  on his wall as opposed to the abstraction of the Kooning being sold on the main floor.

He continues down the line, mind in a light daze as he counts down the minutes of just how much longer he has to wait for  _Funny Bunny and Fritz_  to be announced. Something catches his eye, and he almost passes by the image, but he turns his head back and he blinks to focus on it again. Then, like a weary traveler in the desert, his breath hitches in his throat and he stalls as he is taken by a storm.

Croquet almost bumps into him from the abrupt stop, and his confusion shifts to worry as he can see Pegasus' hands shaking, a cold sweat breaking out over his brow.

"Sir?" Croquet wonders if he should dare lay a hand on his shoulder.

Pegasus does not hear him as his jaw goes slack and his knees feel weak, a sensation of jelly in his nerves as his heart feels as though it has been struck by lightning, pounding in his ears.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"I... I can't believe it..." Pegasus pants, finding his breath again. Quaking hands move to his face, covering his mouth. He looks like he is about to cry.

"Do I need to get a doctor, sir?"

"My art books... I've had it... the whole time..." Pegasus buries his head in his hands and takes deep breaths at the realization.

" _The auction for the collaborative issue of_ Funny Bunny and Fritz the Cat _will begin in 15 minutes."_

Croquet almost flies into a panic when Pegasus doesn't react to the announcement over the intercom.

"Sir!"

Silver hair whips back as Pegasus flings his head to face the ceiling and begins to laugh hysterically. It is a scene Croquet has not witnessed since the events at Duelist Kingdom, and he is terrified. A crowd begins to form around them at the commotion.

Croquet's terror turns to vexation as Pegasus stifles his laughter and he excitedly jumps in place, pumping his fists in the air, chanting "Yes, yes, yes!" under his breath.

"Sir!"

"I've  _found_  it, Croquet!" Pegasus grips his butler's shoulders and swings him around in a circle. "I have it! I know what I've been missing! It was so  _obvious_!"

"Um... congratulations, sir?" Croquet says stiffly. "What exactly did you find?"

"I need to find Isis!"

Pegasus promptly releases Croquet and the mustached man stumbles backwards. Before Croquet can regain his footing, a flash of crimson dashes before his eyes and he sees Pegasus running for the exit.

"Sir?" he croaks.

"If you don't win that collaborative issue of  _Funny Bunny and Fritz_ _the Cat_  while I'm gone, you're hitchhiking back to the island!"


	2. SUN GODDESS

 

* * *

 

She has felt lighter, freer ever since she relinquished the weight of arcane gold from what seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet even without the power of the Millennium Torque, Isis still cannot shake the feeling that there are strings attached to her person. These strings do not tug on her, as they did in darker times, but they instead speak to her as she moves, small whispers and deep thoughts, a hidden intuition she cannot wholly explain. There is sometimes a sensation as though she can feel stars die and planets shift as she gazes at the night sky, and then she thinks it novel. It is probably an overactive imagination, a side effect from her interactions with Pegasus. Such powers only belong to the gods, and Isis, for all her insight and astuteness, is still only human.

 

She is splitting her attention between absorbing new waves of information on the influence of artists of which she had never known and wondering how she can better assist her lover in his endeavor. She is not annoyed or irked by his obsessive search to “capture her” (how could she be bothered after so many nights of roaming hands and sweet sounds shared only between them?), but she instead thinks she has spent far too much time acting as a model instead of a muse. There is a sense of guilt and responsibility, for she had set Pegasus upon the path and had since given him no concrete guidance. He is well learned in the arts, far moreso than she, but she decides it does not hurt to dabble in his world and offer a differing perspective. Perhaps, through her sense of understanding and her eyes, she can offer something new to his quest, help him find what he is looking for, bring him another step closer to his goal.

 

As such, the Southern Nevada Museum of Fine Art was a logical stop. Despite its expansive size, it would have been difficult to find had she not been searching for it. It is a gem hidden in plain sight among the restaurants and casinos of Las Vegas, so very different in appearance compared to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. Isis finds herself impressed with the layout, admiring the attention to detail and care placed into each exhibit, but there is some distaste for the exterior, as it reminds her more of a store front at a mall than a museum. However, it does not take long to understand the architectural difference as she pays for a guided tour and assesses the condition of her group. Typical tourists who come to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities have a vested interest in history; typical tourists who come to the Southern Nevada Museum of Fine Art are popping in and out of the hustle and bustle of the Vegas strip.

 

Her tour guide is a lanky woman in her mid-30s with a fair complexion and sharp cheekbones. Her dark hair is in a bob cut, and she sports a black pinstriped pencil skirt with sensible shoes and a ruffled blouse, and she adjusts her thin-rimmed glasses with a small grin every now and again. Her name tag reads “Karen” in a crisp serif type against a white background, and for the most part, she seems quite content with her job. Yet, as a museum curator herself, Isis can recognize the subtle, annoyed points as the woman tries to explain the history, the techniques, the intricacies behind each piece, and is interrupted by a member of the group for a seemingly asinine question or comment.

 

“What's that supposed to be?”

 

“As I said _before_ , this piece was done by Helen Frankenthaler. She was one of the leading female artists in the–”

 

“Yeah, I get that, but what is it supposed to be?”

 

“Well, with this type of abstraction, the focus is on technique and investigative use of color as opposed to–”

 

“It looks like something my five-year-old did.”

 

“I assure you, I am aware it looks simple to the eye, but the technique used here is–”

 

“When do we get to see the exhibit with all the naked statues?”

 

Isis admires the tour guide's resolve as she takes it all in stride. She, however, finds herself becoming increasingly irritated with the repeat offenders in the group. In addition to learning more about the contemporary arts, Isis does genuinely want to have a good time, and the slightly overweight, middle-aged honeymooners from Minnesota (if their accents and maroon “University of Minnesota” T-shirts were anything to go by) are testing her patience. Isis also doesn't know why the wife is carrying around a giant foam finger and simultaneously trying to take pictures with it still on.

 

As the group makes its way through the exhibits, Isis takes a moment between learning and loathing to wonder what Pegasus is doing in her absence.

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

“What do you mean 'I can't take this in with me'?”

 

“Sir, this museum has a very strict 'no food or drink' policy. You will either need to finish your water before you enter or throw it away.”

 

“Now you listen here!” Pegasus slams his hand down on the ticket counter and points at the desk person threateningly with the tip of the bottle. “I paid _five dollars_ for this liter of artesian spring water because it has this little green leaf printed on the label to assure me I won't get cancer from the plastic. _I am taking it in with me_.”

 

“Then I will have to call security, sir...” The young man, no more than 19 years old and shrinking under Pegasus' glare, reaches for a walkie talkie next to the ticket dispenser.

 

“Security?!” Pegasus balks. “For a _bottle of water_?! You do realize this is a _precious_ resource in this state, correct? My great-grandfather helped _build_ this city from the ground up and he constantly said Vegas would have been the next Ubar if it weren't for Lake Mead and the Hoover Dam! If either one goes, this city is going to be _Beyond Thunderdome_ like _that!_ ” Pegasus snaps his fingers for emphasis and the desk person can only cringe at the implications.

 

“I don't make the rules, sir. I'm just trying to follow procedure...”

 

“I have half a mind to contact the curator and cut your pay!”

 

“But I'm not paid at all. I'm an intern...”

 

“Do we have a problem here, sir?”

 

Pegasus does not find himself intimidated, but is terribly annoyed when he sees a stocky gentleman in a suit with a buzz cut and sunglasses approach him. He rolls his remaining eye with his head and there is an audible bite as he clenches his jaw in defeat.

 

“Oh, _no_ , none at all. _Here_ ,” Pegasus thrusts the bottle towards the guard's chest and simultaneously rips his ticket out of the dispenser. “No worries. The tall, scary businessman in the red suit won't do any harm to your _priceless_ Hofmann imitations. Stay hydrated, boys.”

 

The museum staff watches him saunter through the entrance with a flick of his hand in a dismissive manner and a mighty sneer. He would have fought more on the matter, but Pegasus has regrettably wasted enough time in a taxi fighting downtown traffic before getting impatient and throwing a small stack of cash at the driver a mile from the museum. He isn't going to waste anymore time squabbling over oppressive procedures. He _need_ _s_ to see Isis; he _needs_ to see his muse now that he knows he can paint her in complete form. With that in mind, he reprimands himself and fixes his posture, widening his stride with a confident gait as he does so. He is not going to greet his goddess like a sulking child.

 

Pegasus makes his way through the museum. The exhibits start innocently enough with contemporary statues of clay, bronze, aluminum, and various other metals. Then there are conceptual pieces, squares and chairs and spheres and words and mobiles and puzzles, all of it quaint and some of it clever, but as he ventures further into the building, the environment changes into something more sinister to his eye. The museum becomes less of a temple to fine art and mutates into a domain of brightly colored scum, a testament to mockery. He is a Renaissance man with knowledge beyond Renaissance, a man who can replicate a Rembrandt at a glance, sketch a black and white series of cards inspired by _Salome_ a la Beardsley and redo it all in the style of a Seurat in a night.

 

He understands these styles, these artists, feels a kinship with them that spans beyond the constraints of time as he holds pen, charcoal, or brush, giving them life again, but he cannot connect with or comprehend the framed debris he sees on the walls. Abstraction is just that to him: broken, incomplete pieces. It physically hurts to be surrounded by the harsh lines, the splashes, the splatters that taunt to any, all, or no reason whatsoever. It is a sadistic maze, and he feels himself getting nauseous, slipping into a shattered, chaotic haze. He wonders how much the museum paid for all of this, and he feels even sicker as he sees the numbers add up in his head. He is tempted to turn back, relieve himself of the torment, but the headache fades when he reminds himself why he is there.

 

_Isis, where are you?_

 

He massages his temples and holds onto an exhibit rail to guide him as he squints through the pain. She is worth it. She is worth all this. She deserves to know; she deserves to be composed as she _is;_ she deserves to know _what_ she is.

 

 _I found it, love. I found it. I found it. I found what I was missing. I finally found_ you _._

 

He wipes a drop of sweat from his brow and raises his head, daring to brave any oncoming atrocities. His eyesight is blurred, slightly, and he realizes he has made it past the broken shapes as his vision clears. He finds himself in a hall lined with pleasant colors: rich purples, deep reds, passive blues, and he sighs in relief. The simple pallets are something he can work with for the time being. As his headache subsides, he makes his way through the hall and observes each piece, taking some solace in the calming effect of the colors and soft brush strokes.

 

As he is half way through, he directs his head to the exit and jarringly stops in place with a gasp, as though he has run into an invisible barrier. In the room at the end of the hall, he sees the greatest work of art he has beheld thus far. It is the unmistakable shape of a goddess cloaked in white and gold, framed by a massive field of jade green and lapis blue, shimmering like the sun over the open sea. He finds himself awash and overwhelmed, and as the eyes of the goddess regard him with an air of consternation, the feeling multiplies tenfold, amplifies beyond control, and he bolts forward.

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

“Now, this is the newest addition to the museum,” Karen the tour guide says excitedly as she spreads her arms. “It's a Rothko we won in auction within the past month and a _very_ rare find. There's a palpable sense of tranquility as you stare at the massive expanse of green and blue. Just take a moment for yourself to reflect and–”

 

“ISIS!!”

 

The tour group turns to face the source of the sudden commotion and behold a swath of brilliant red and stark silver barreling in their direction. Isis blinks and purses her lips, shaking her head for a quick second to ensure her eyes are not deceiving her.

 

“Pegasus?”

 

“ISIS!”

 

“Pegasus, what are you–?”

 

He does not give her another second to complete her question, colliding with her body and using the momentum to sweep her into his arms, encircling her waist and hoisting her in the air, spinning her in emphatic circles. Her eyes are as wide as saucers and her hands scrabble for purchase before settling on his shoulders.

 

“My dear goddess! I've been searching so long!” His eye is gleaming, a shining citrine stone staring adoringly up at the shocked, brilliant blue of her own, and she cannot restrain a small titter at the sight.

 

“I wasn't far,” Isis says, taking a hand off his right shoulder and brushing his hair aside to get a better look at his face. “What brought this on?”

 

Pegasus does not answer her verbally, instead opting to set her feet back down on the pristine pearl-white floors before taking her face in his hands and claiming her lips in his. She gingerly takes his head between her hands and finds herself mildly startled when she feels his tongue sweep the interior of her mouth with a heavy, amorous energy. When he withdraws and places his hands atop her shoulders, she is suddenly aware of all the eyes in the room.

 

“Oh, Isis, all this time, I've been committing an _atrocious_ wrong against you!” The words are serious, but the delighted expression never leaves his face. The Egyptian woman blinks in vexation and their impromptu audience gasps.

 

“Just what is this wrong?” Isis asks with a raised brow, a suspicious frown as she moves her hands to his elbows.

 

“For not _understanding_ you!” Pegasus declares. “I've said it before, so many times in the past, but now I _truly_ get it, Isis! You really _are_ a goddess!”

 

Her lips move, but nothing comes out, a motion that makes her appear like a goldfish. She realizes, quickly, how foolish she must look and forces the words out of her mouth.

 

“I... thank you?”

 

His smile is pure elation as he looks down at her, her eyes doe-like in their bewilderment, and he finds she is positively adorable as a blush paints itself across her face. Upon further inspection, however, he furrows his brow and the smile subsides when he retreats in thought, before it returns at full force and he chortles in delight.

 

“No! _No_! I take it back,” he says, putting his forehead to hers. “You are not _a_ goddess!”

 

The audience gasps again and Isis narrows her eyes at the withdrawal, only to widen them once more as Pegasus gathers her hands together in his, placing a kiss atop her knuckles with an enthusiastic reverence.

 

“You're so much _more_ than that!” he beams, eyes alight, surging with admiration. “My beloved Madame Muad'Dib, she who guides the way and has eyes to the past, present, and beyond!”

 

“ _Not anymore..._ ” she murmurs in Arabic, head held low, still feeling the questioning gaze of the onlookers. She registers a flash out the corner of her eye as someone takes a photo.

 

“I shall no longer wrong you in the eyes of the cosmos!” he continues, “I understand what you _are_ now, Isis! I _understand_!”

 

“... And just what am I, exactly?” She glances at him sideways.

 

“I understand what you are _not_!” Pegasus answers happily, making the situation all the more cryptic for everyone else in the room. He releases her hands to cup her face, a look in his eyes as though the universe is cradled in his grasp.

 

“Isis, you're _not_ a Gibson or a Manet or a Dali or a Mucha! No, my beloved, you're so much _more_ than that. You aren't just _a_ goddess; you're an _amalgam_ of goddesses, an esoteric _powerhouse_! How could I have been so _blind_? Why, it's in your very _name_! You _are_ Isis; you _are_ Ishtar; you _are_ Astarte; you _are_ Aphrodite; you are _Venus incarnate_! A raw, unbridled, force from the heavens bound in flesh, destined to light the world asunder with your final breath as you are freed from the limitations of your mortal coils! You are the sun that grants growth to the earth and the heat which sparks the fires that smite mankind! You are the moon that commands the tide and calls upon armies to conquer in your name! You are _radiance_ ; you are _retribution_ ; you are _empyrean_ ; you are _sublime_!”

 

He releases her face and spreads his arms wide, posturing his shoulders and chest with the stance of a practiced showman, never breaking eye contact with her.

 

“Isis!” he breaths deeply, emboldened with a gravity of conviction, his hands thrusting forward with a final declaration and thrumming with passion. “ _YOU_ ARE A _FRAZETTA_!!”

 

As he places his hands on her shoulders, Isis finds herself overwhelmed by the visionary bombshell, a swell of emotions rushing through her: shock, euphoria, and a heavy dose of embarrassment. She can hear sniffling from the women around them and the palpable seething of their counterparts at what would inevitably result in a lavish gift delivered with a poem that was copied and pasted from the internet.

 

In the moment, Isis hears a nasally, now familiar Minnesotan accent from the right.

 

“How come you never say anything nice like that to me, Jerry?” The squat, carrot-topped woman with thick bedazzled glasses stands with hands on her hips, expectantly tapping her foot on the floor, judging her significant other of 20 some-odd years. Jerry doesn't bother with the effort to make eye contact and mutters under his breath:

 

“I'd say all that stuff if you looked anything like _that,_ Janet.”

 

Isis wonders if Pegasus' soliloquy just destroyed a marriage, but the latter seemed oblivious to their plight or chose to outright ignore the sudden beating Jerry was receiving with a large foam finger.

 

“Thank you, Pegasus. It is... flattering, to say the least,” Isis finally whispers, failing to quell the heat brimming in her cheeks. The esteemed creator of Duel Monsters took mercy on her and pulled her into his chest, placing a kiss just above the gem on her forehead.

 

“I just have one question.”

 

“Oh?” he harmonizes the word, looking down at her with unrestrained adoration.

 

“I am aware you were referencing several artists. However...” She glances to his chest and back to his glowing citrine eye. “Who exactly is Frazetta?”

 

Karen the tour guide makes a motion with her index finger in the air, as though to provide the necessary information, but closes her mouth when she thinks it better to let the woman's lover explain it when she observes the expression on his face shift from veneration to bemusement. He leans himself over to examine Isis' eyes, as though he can't believe the words that just came out of her mouth.

 

“'Who is Frazetta'? You really don't know? Surely, you jest! Perhaps my knowledge is a tad obscure in relation to his _licentious_ pieces,” Pegasus drawls, stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger, “but I can assure you, Isis, you have _certainly_ seen something he has done without knowing it! For example, _The Death Dealer._ ”

 

He is met with silence.

 

“... You don't know _The Death Dealer?_ ”

 

Isis lifts her shoulders in a shrug with a small smile.

 

“All right, perhaps that's not all that popular where you're from, but I bet you know his illustrations for _John Carter_!”

 

Isis furrows her brow with another shake of her head.

 

“You know, _A Princess of Mars_? It's like _Conan the Barbarian_ , only in it takes place in space.”

 

Isis can only shake her head once more. Pegasus' jaw nearly hits the floor at that.

 

“You've read _Dune_ , but you've never read _Conan_?!”

 

“I never picked it up,” Isis confesses.

 

“What the hell? Did she grow up under a rock or some shit?” a tourist comments on the sidelines. Isis glares in his direction, but Pegasus' reaction is far more malevolent.

 

“YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH THIS INSTANT!”

 

The acoustics in the room amplify a roar she hadn't known Pegasus was capable of as he makes a hasty advance. Pegasus prides himself in his wit, well spoken with a flair that served to confound others for his amusement, but as Isis sees him use his height to tower over the cowering honeymooner, she remembers that he is still a little over six feet tall and has a temper when provoked. He can be physically intimidating when he feels the need for it, and the tourist shrinks under the volume and posturing.

 

“I-I'm sorry,” Jerry squeaked.

 

“A _goddess amalgam_ has no _need_ of an apology from a _worm_!”

 

Jerry tries to recoil further into himself and nods. When Pegasus turns to Isis, a sneer crosses his lips as he looks over his shoulder at the feeble man.

 

“I don't want to hear another word from you.”

 

Jerry makes a motion with his thumb and index finger, pinching them together and moving them across his lips before making it appear as though he is throwing a key over his shoulder.

 

“Hmph,” Pegasus huffs imperiously, crossing his arms over his chest as he takes his place beside Isis once more. “Really, Janet, you could do better.”

 

Isis raises a brow, noting that he used the woman's name. Ah, so Pegasus _had_ been paying attention after all.

 

“So you really don't know _anything_ about Frank Frazetta?” Pegasus asks, getting back to the topic at hand.

 

“I'm afraid not.”

 

He uncrosses his arms and reaches for her.

 

“Oh, _oh_ , Isis, my beloved, my accomplished doctor of Egyptology and Secretary General of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities,” he says the last words as quickly as he can think of them, hugging her to his chest before moving her back with his hands on her shoulders. “You know so much of empires that have risen and fallen into the sand, yet there is a gaping hole in your knowledge.”

 

At last, she successfully tames the blood in her cheeks and her eyes narrow at the sudden tone.

 

“You don't have to be so patronizing.”

 

“Indeed!” he exclaims with an excited clap, turning 90 degrees on his heel so she was facing his profile. “Let us depart so I may not just tell you, but _show_ you–”

 

“You can stop now,” she says quickly, feeling the blood rush back to her face.

 

“– where I must shed you of this mortal cloth–”

 

“Pegasus!”

 

“– a woven cage that fails to suppress the fire within!”

 

“Enough!”

 

“We must take our leave!” Pegasus concedes, for her sake, punctuating the remark with an index finger pointed to the ceiling before gently wrapping a hand around Isis' back, cupping a shoulder, and ushering her out of the exhibit. He makes a grand sweeping motion with an outstretched arm to formally say their goodbyes.

 

“I hope you all have a _lovely_ day! Thank you all, _so,_ _so_ _much_ , for tolerating this lovesick fool's display of amateur performance art— Oh, and you have a Rothko! Very nice!”

 

With the exception of the Minnesotan honeymooners, the audience applauds and whistles while Karen the tour guide smiles at Pegasus' acknowledgement.

 

“This could only happen in Vegas,” she sighs.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

“You're positively insufferable,” Isis says with a small, near imperceptible smirk, arms linked around the crook of his elbow as he looks quite pleased with himself.

 

“You don't want to hear my undying devotion in public? Are you ashamed of my affections?”

 

“I was learning about Rothko and you interrupted the presentation,” Isis says. Pegasus makes a clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth in response.

 

“Is that all?” Pegasus asks, mildly amused. “Easy, then. One of the patron saints of color field. You're expected to stare at a massive canvas with a limited palette and feel something due to how the mind processes color. I thought it was all bogus myself until I studied color theory. My criticisms softened _somewhat_ after that.”

 

“Are you a fan or no?”

 

“Can I appreciate color field for what it is? Yes. Would I spend my own money to own one? No.”

 

“Whereas you have the talent to make one for yourself?” Isis teases.

 

“I may be a successful entrepreneur, but I am, above all, an _artist_ , and the paint I favor is _expensive_. I am not wasting all the royal blues I could possess for the next 20 years on a 20 foot canvas in a week. Besides...”

 

With a euphoric tone, Pegasus stops walking and moves to face Isis, massaging her arms as he speaks.

 

“I have no _want_ to waste my time with such nonsense when I can spend the rest of my days painting _you_. Oh, at long last, I can do you justice! _Frazetta_! Of course, it was the _element_ of Frazetta all along!”

 

“You still haven't told me who he is,” Isis says with a small, sideways smile. “I didn't see anything by him in the museum.”

 

“Ah, well, that can be explained quite easily. You see...”

 

“... Yes?”

 

His hands are still on her arms, but he is distracted, a far off stare that has rendered him at a loss for words. The position of his eye hints there is something just over her shoulder. Isis looks, and she understands immediately.

 

Just behind them is a family of three: mother, father, and a young boy no older than six years. The child's tousled blonde hair sticks out from beneath a bright red ballcap with a Blue Eyes Toon Dragon patch on the front. The white T-shirt with a Blue Eyes Toon Dragon on the chest is one size too big for his frame and bears light orange stains, hinting to more than one incident with a messy bowl of spaghetti in the past. Undoubtedly, it is his favorite shirt. The boy's denim shorts are more or less in the same condition, a band aid on one knee from some sort of outdoor venture. Completing his outfit is a pair of lime green sneakers with a Blue Eyes Toon Dragon on either outstep, and in his hands, he grips an extra large soda, a collectible cup with a Blue Eyes Toon Dragon figure on the lid, a large straw poking out from its roaring mouth.

 

Isis and Pegasus are at the stage in their relationship where they no longer have need for their former Items to feel each other's thoughts as they both imagine Kaiba screaming somewhere for a reason he does not know or understand, and perhaps his lifespan is shortened by a few days. The couple smiles knowingly at one another before Isis asks:

 

“Would you like to talk to one of your fans?”

 

Pegasus places a small peck on her cheek as he smooths the lapels on his blazer.

 

“Don't mind if I do.”

 

They quietly make their way over to the family, not wanting to startle them, and overhear the parents as they approach.

 

“What is it supposed to look like?”

 

“I don't think we're supposed to actually _see_ anything.”

 

“Then what's the point? Then it'd be just a bunch paint splatters!”

 

“Maybe we're meant to admire it for what it is?”

 

“Well, then, there isn't much to admire.”

 

“Perhaps there's a complexity to the simplicity and we're just not understanding.”

 

“It's either simple or complex, not both. Either way, I don't get it.”

 

“Maybe if we read the sign here...”

 

The boy looks bored out of his mind as he takes a sip of his soda. He wants to go to the new theme park, but his parents promised he could go _only_ if they went to the museum first and _only_ if he was well behaved. It was the time old trade, future gratification in exchange for intellectual tedium in the present.

 

Pegasus didn't need the Eye to read that much. Poor child.

 

The boy's eyes, dull and half-lidded, widen with a jolt when he sees Pegasus. He reaches for his mother's skirt and pulls on it to get her attention.

 

“M-mom! Look! It's–”

 

The woman bats the hand away and doesn't look at the boy.

 

“Honey, hush. Mommy and Daddy are talking.”

 

“B-but Mom, look! It's–”

 

The woman looks down at her child and gasps.

 

“I told you not to point at things, Samuel! It's rude!”

 

“But _Mom_ ,” he nearly whines, cupping his soda desperately and dancing in place by switching from one foot to the other. “It's–”

 

“I don't care what it is. You don't point at...” She stops and follows the direction, before gasping and grabbing at her husband's sleeve.

 

“P-Pegasus J. Crawford!” she exclaims. Her husband follows suit and removes his glasses to clear off a smudge to get a better view.

 

The silver haired man preens himself with a confident purr.

 

“You take your boy's observations for granted. If I was a snake, I would have bitten you.”

 

“Y-you are...”

 

“The Creator of Duel Monsters,” Pegasus says with a flourish of his hand, but the parents speak over him and instead say:

 

“The heir to the Crawford casino fortune!” they say in unison. Their son looks confused and Isis is trying to stifle her laughter. For once, Pegasus appears dumbfounded, before reminding himself that his family's name still holds some weight in Vegas. The claim isn't entirely wayward.

 

“... 'Heir' is a strong word,” Pegasus begins, composing himself and speaking into his hand. “I would much prefer my father keep his businesses for as long as possible before it's handed off to... more capable hands. My heart is set on other ventures, like _Duel Monsters._ Sam, is it?”

 

The boy nods excitedly at being acknowledged by his hero, let alone being acknowledged by an adult, and Pegasus smiles warmly. The CEO of Industrial Illusions moves down on one knee in order to speak on the child's level, eye to eye. He had always thought it best to speak with the children, not down at them.

 

“I couldn't help noticing everything you're wearing has a _Blue Eyes Toon Dragon_ on it,” Pegasus enunciates the monster's name slowly, imagining a grey hair forming on Kaiba's head. “I bet I'm not far off assuming it's your favorite monster?”

 

“Yeah, it's really cool!” Sam nods. “I like all the other toon monsters, too, like Dark Rabbit and Toon Summoned Skull! But they don't make a lot of stuff with them. This is all I can ever find in the store.” Sam tugs on the shirt for emphasis and Pegasus gasps, as though scandalized.

 

“That is _terrible_ shame,” Pegasus proclaims. “I'm very happy you told me that, Sam. I'm going to have a word with my marketing department and see if we can fix that for you. I, for one, would definitely like to see more toon merchandise on the shelves.”

 

Isis looks off to the side and wonders if that was Pegasus' way of saying he was going to yell at the marketing director in Tuesday's teleconference meeting.

 

“I would really like that, Mr. Crawford,” Sam agrees.

 

“Please, Sam, we're on a first name basis. You can call me Pegasus,” he says with an outstretched hand.

 

“O-okay, Mr. Pegasus.”

 

The CEO chuckles good-naturedly as Sam shakes his hand, nervously, before quickly returning it to his extra large soda.

 

“So that's _real_ _ly_ his first name? I thought it was Maximillian,” he hears the mother whisper loudly to her significant other.

 

“Rich people are eccentric that way. Just go with it,” replies the father. Pegasus pretends not to hear it and Isis stifles another laugh, but her amusement shows in the up and down movement of her shoulders.

 

“Maximillian is my father's and my great-grandfather's name,” Pegasus informs. “The media confuses us all because we're immortal. That's why my hair is white. I'm much older than I look. That's why you need to eat your vegetables.”

 

The boy gasps as Pegasus winks, as though it is a secret between them. Isis shakes her head, half in amusement and the other in disbelief. This from the man who ate an entire wheel of cheese in one sitting?

 

“Also, while we're on the subject of secrets...” Pegasus continued, leaning in. “Not many people know this, but even though the toon monsters weren't released immediately, they were among the first designs I drew when I started the game.”

 

“You _drew_ the toon monsters yourself?!”

 

Pegasus nods.

 

“I've illustrated many cards in my time. Some are better known that others, and certainly some are more _powerful_ than others...”

 

He takes a short pause to share a meaningful glance with Isis before continuing.

 

“... but no matter what I made, they all took years of work to complete.”

 

“It takes _years_ to make one card?” Sam asks. Pegasus chuckles lightly, shaking his head.

 

“It's not quite what I mean,” Pegasus says. “Do you have any Duel Monsters cards with you, per chance?”

 

“Yeah!” the boy nods emphatically and reaches into his pocket, handing the card over to Pegasus with a shaking hand. Pegasus grins as he looks at the squished face of the cartoon dragon, and he sees Kaiba falling to his knees and shaking his fist at the sky in impotent rage.

 

“I can't really use it, though,” the boy says shyly, looking at his feet. “I don't have Toon World because it's banned, but I like the picture so I keep it in my pocket.”

 

“I'm very glad you said that, Sam, because it brings up the point I'm going to make,” Pegasus says, pointing at the boy with his favorite card before smoothing it out between his hands.

 

“Take it as a lesson from a professional, yes? Duel Monsters is more than a game to me; it's _art_ , like what you see on the walls here in this museum. What I particularly like about cards is that when it comes to admiring the artwork, you're not restricted to a wall for eyes only. With cards, you can carry the art with you: you can hold it, touch it, feel the surface beneath your fingertips, trace the lines and imagine what was going through the mind of the artist as they put medium to canvas...”

 

He traces the image of the toon dragon as carefully as he chooses his words, a reverance to his eye as he remembers.

 

“When I said it takes years of work, what I meant to say is: it takes years to build the _skill_ to put these cards in your hands. Many will tell you that artists are spontaneous, instinctive, and _eccentric_ ,” he emphasizes the last word and stares at the boy's parents. They avert his gaze uncomfortably before he turns his attention back to their son. “To a degree, those things are true, but a true artist, a _good_ artist, is disciplined. Practice is necessary; a good artist needs a routine, a reason, a _muse_.”

 

Once more, he casts a glance in Isis' direction.

 

“All artists are dreamers, but it takes a dedicated artist to make their vision a reality. It's important to dream, but art cannot come of dreams alone. An artist needs to _act_ and an artist needs _time_. All these things are necessary or else _good art_ cannot happen, this card here cannot happen.”

 

He holds the Blue Eyes Toon Dragon between himself and little Sam, the image facing the boy.

 

“This dragon looks simple, but it took me years of rigorous study and practice to produce the end result, and I can say the same of all other artists and designers involved with the process. When you hold a Duel Monsters card, it's not just linework and pretty colors. It's _years_ of someone's research and training, a part of their _life_ , a piece of their _soul_ , and you can hold it in your hands.”

 

Sam shook with anticipation as Pegasus handed the card back to him, seeing it with more respect and feeling guilty about the creases in the corners.

 

“Which is why places like this are important, as well,” Pegasus continued, gesturing to the museum with open palms. “Many of the artists who made what you see around you are no longer with us. They have passed on. You remember when I told you artists need _time_ , yes?”

 

Sam nods.

 

“In my experience, it is the defining factor. You can always dream, and you can _choose_ how to act, but once time has passed, it cannot be taken back, regardless of whether or not action was taken in the first place. You can't demand those years back to your life, no matter how much you wish it to be so. That's why it's so important to acknowledge what is on these walls. This work contains the life of the artist, something only they could give so others could experience it. What you see here is all that is left of their time in this world, a sliver of immortality... and perhaps I'm not quite as immortal as I wish to be, but something like that card,” he gestures to the Blue Eyes Toon Dragon in Sam's hand. “Certainly gives me a chance. Do you understand?”

 

Sam is quiet, and purses his lips. He can't quite wrap his head around all of it, but he understands enough, so he nods. The gravity of the topic is not lost on Pegasus, and he decides to change it to something a little lighter.

 

“Now, you must forgive me for prying a _teensy_ bit, but I could not help but _notice_ during this whole exchange that you are holding a rather large soda, and this museum has a policy against food and drink in the building.”

 

Sam blushes out of shame and holds the soda to his chest, averting eye contact with the dapper man in red. His mother subconsciously rotates her ankle at the words and pulls her purse close to her body.

 

“Now, _Sam_ ,” Pegasus says in a lecturing tone, “I didn't point it out to make you feel bad, so don't look like you're in trouble, because I'm not here to yell at you or tell you what you did was wrong. I am only saying this because as a _responsible_ adult—”

 

It may have been his imagination, but he couldn't help but feel a sort of heat radiating off the back of his head. Was Isis glaring at him right now?

 

“I also had to follow the policy when I came here. I had to throw away a water bottle because it was the rule, and I was obligated to obey it. Now, I confess that I can be something of a rule breaker myself–”

 

“ _A gross understatement,”_ Isis thought, and Pegasus swore he could _hear_ her think it— in Arabic, no less.

 

“But I understand why that particular rule is in place. The staff here doesn't do it to be mean. They do it because accidents can, and probably have, happened, and they are trying their best to prevent them. After what I just told you, can you blame them for being worried if someone trips and splatters their drink all over someone's work?”

 

Sam gathers the nerve to look Pegasus in the eye and shakes his head. Pegasus smiles in sympathy before leaning further inward, cupping a hand to one side of his mouth in a conspirational fashion.

 

“With that said, it must be one good soda if you risked getting caught by security” he whispers. “What flavor is it, if I may ask?”

 

“Cherry cola,” Sam confesses.

 

“You have fine taste, young man,” Pegasus compliments. “However, I cannot, in good conscience, let you keep breaking the rules, _but_ I also cannot bring myself to take a treat away from a child. Even if it is inline to protect the rules, the very nature of it would be unjust!”

 

“ _What is he getting at?”_ Isis asks herself.

 

“So I propose, instead, a trade!” Pegasus declares, digging through the chest pocket of his suit and pulling out a booster pack. He relishes the sudden excitement in the boy's eyes.

 

“This is from a series that is not set to be released until six months from now. I cannot guarantee that it has a secret rare inside, but between you and me, I think this one is _lucky_. So...” Pegasus dangles the pack from one hand as he holds out the other expectantly. “Brand new trading cards for an extra large cherry cola. Do we have a deal?”

 

“Deal!” Sam chirps, thrusting the soda forward into Pegasus' open hand as he graciously accepts the sealed pack. Sam quickly sets to work at opening it, an unmistakeable sound of crinkling plastic echoing in the gallery halls, but he stops with a cringe as he is scolded by his mother.

 

“Samuel! What do we say?”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Pegasus,” he says quietly. Pegasus pats the boy on the head with his free hand before standing to his full height.

 

“It's quite all right. I was very happy I got the chance to meet you, Sam,” Pegasus says.

 

“It was a pleasure meeting you as well, Pegasus,” his mother laughs good naturedly.

 

“It's 'Mr. Crawford' to _you_ ,” Pegasus replies pointedly. The parents pause to register the formality and decide to pull Sam back to their sides.

 

“Yes, well... We must be going now. We still have to look at the flowers in the Georgia O'keeffe exhibit. Goodbye!”

 

“I'm sure that one will go over your heads as well,” Pegasus mutters under his breath as they leave. Sam looks back to wave to Pegasus, and the man waves back with a small smile as they turn a corner and fall out of his view. Isis takes the opportunity to step forward and stand by his side, regarding him sideways with a curious air.

 

“You don't do well with parents?”

 

“It depends on the situation,” Pegasus murmurs, head turning to look left, then right down the halls of the exhibit, his torso moving slightly with the motion, reminding Isis of an ibis at the edge of a river. Only the two of them remain on the floor, and he appears satisfied when cannot hear anyone coming in their direction.

 

“So what was this all about?” Isis asks, pointing to the dark drink in his hands. “I wasn't aware you were a fan of cherry cola.”

 

“I'm not,” Pegasus confirms, looking down at the soda and swirling it around, ensuring there's an equal distribution of sugar throughout before popping off the lid. “Oh, my, there's still quite a bit in here.”

 

“Are you going to throw it away?” Isis asks, still skeptical, an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. She can't pinpoint what is causing it, but she finds she is uneasy as Pegasus continues to swirl the drink in his hand in a calculating, purposeful circle, akin to how one would treat a glass of wine.

 

“Something like that,” he says quietly, before staring intently at the painting in front of them. His composed expression changes to disdain and he steps back with his right foot, leaning into the direction with the soda in hand and whips his arm to the front in a graceful arc. The soda sails forward and the dark, sticky contents of the sugary concoction splashes against the canvas, spreading from the center and dripping downward, small brown droplets staining the pristine tiled floor below.

 

Isis covers her mouth with her hands and gasps, eyes wide as she is trying to comprehend what she witnessed. Her hands drop from her mouth as she sees Pegasus hunched over beside her, shoulders low with his head following suit, long silver hair obscuring his face from view. She reaches for him, timidly, and withdraws her hand as Pegasus' shoulders begin to shake as he cackles lowly. She takes a step backward as he proceeds to throw his head back and spread his arms wide, a devious, villainous laugh echoing throughout the hall.

 

She finds her voice as the laughter ebbs away and Pegasus stares hungrily at the remnants of his bad deed.

 

“Pegasus, what... What did you just _do_?”

 

“What did I do? Ha! I made an _improvement_ to that sorry piece of so-called 'fine art'!”

 

“Pegasus, that was a 75 million dollar painting by Jackson Pollock,” Isis quotes the price tag below the placard.

 

“Not anymore!” Pegasus makes a grand pose with his hands on his hips, shoulder blades flexed and chest forward, a grin slicing across his face akin to a cat that slaughtered the family's prized canary. Isis is abhorred as the severity, or rather, the superficiality of the situation dawns on her.

 

“Please do not tell me... You _plotted_ to trade a Duel Monsters booster pack for a child's soda, all so you could _throw it at_ _a_ _painting you don't like_?”

 

 _“Precisely_ for that reason!” he proclaims with an air of unbridled satisfaction. After taking another moment to admire his “improvement”, he grabs Isis' wrist and gives it a firm tug.

 

“Now _run_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, I have nothing against people from Minnesota. I just chose the state because I love hearing the regional accent.
> 
> We'll get to why action painting makes Pegasus so ill in the next chapter.


	3. THE EGYPTIAN QUEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sexy times chapter. If you're opposed to such things despite acknowledging that I gave this story the “M” rating for this exact reason, I recommend you skip everything after Pegasus brings out the wine basket and go to the last break in the chapter for humor and pillow talk. However, if you do want sexy times, commence reading!

_Incense; wine, artisanal beer, and sweet baked goods; but most of all absolute, unconditional adoration, devotion, and loyalty. She is a volatile, unpredictable, temperamental spirit, especially in her path as Ishtar. A well-maintained altar or artistic tributes should be pleasing._

 

\- Recommended offerings to the goddess Inanna-Ishtar, _Encyclopedia of Spirits_

* * *

 

They were perfectly capable of outrunning museum security, but Pegasus could not outrun the hidden cameras. He had undoubtedly diminished the value of the painting, and after a short discussion with his lawyers, Pegasus agreed to pay $5 million for the ruined Pollock with some chagrin. The day after the suit was settled, he purchased a riding lawn mower and spent the better half of the morning shredding it to pieces on his island while he streamed it live to the Action Artist Association of America.

 

“He really doesn't like action painting, does he?” Isis asks Croquet on the balcony, taking a sip of Turkish coffee as they both watch Pegasus run over the shreds of canvas for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

 

“It is because of an old art teacher,” Croquet informs. “He had taken tutelage under private instructors since he was five years old. Pegasus took to it like a fish to water. He could replicate a Vermeer at seven and do a Caravaggio from memory at ten. Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo to Impressionism, Surrealism, Art Nouveau— just what I can recall off the top of my head. Whatever Master Pegasus was tasked to learn, he excelled. He also formed skills in other mediums such as sculpting and some earth works, but he favored painting above all. He never had any trouble with his instructors until he got a teacher in the postmodern styles.”

 

Isis says nothing, at first, while she glances at Pegasus laughing maniacally on the lawnmower.

 

“... I take it didn't sit well with him,” she finally says.

 

“It was the first time in Master Pegasus' life that a teacher was appalled with his work. He worked tirelessly to gain approval, but he never received it. Master Pegasus accused the teacher of being a poor tutor with poorer taste, and Master Pegasus was accused of having a stagnant eye due to watching too many cartoons.”

 

Isis hums at this. If there was one thing she knew Pegasus would never tolerate, it was speaking ill of Funny Bunny. That much is obvious as she recalls Pegasus excitedly framing a newly acquired issue in his library once they had reached the island. She still wasn't certain as to why there was a smug grey cat sharing the cover with the pink lagomorphic protagonist, but she didn't press the matter as he had ecstatically said “Now _this_ is art!”

 

“He had no interest in really learning about the theory behind postmodern styles until he reached college,” Croquet says. “After he graduated, he said thus: 'I have made peace with Mondrian and De Stijl. I see the merit in Rothko and color field. I have learned an appreciation for Abramovic and the performers, but I will _never_ accept the likes of Pollock and the mockery of gestural abstraction.' Since that day, he has stayed true to his word.”

 

“I can see.”

 

“His teacher had an original piece by another abstract expressionist, a Kline; it was the prized jewel of his collection and Pegasus knew this. He took it out of the gallery and set it on fire when he was 17 years old.”

 

“He broke into the man's home to destroy his favorite painting?” Suddenly, the soda incident in Las Vegas looked tame.

 

“He never had to break in. Pegasus was in his house frequently, always going in and out on a daily basis.”

 

“Really?” Isis asks over the rim of her cup. “Why would he frequent the house of a teacher he despised?”

 

Croquet looks uncomfortable with the question, but gives Isis the answer regardless.

 

“He was Cyndia's father.”

 

There is a long silence as she considers the flavor that lingers on her tongue, a heavy weight starting in her chest and sinking into her stomach.

 

“Ah,” is all she says.

 

“I suppose that was one of the things that drew her to Master Pegasus,” Croquet continued. “The instructor was a close friend of his father and she was brought to a party that was hosted at their main casino. Until they met, Cyndia had associated fine art with abstract pieces since that was all that was in the house. When Pegasus showed her the first portrait he painted of her, she had been exposed to world of art she wasn't aware existed. This contributed to the tension between student and teacher.

 

“It culminated toward the end of Cyndia's life. When she fell horrendously ill, her father told the hospital staff not to allow Master Pegasus into the room. As they had been engaged, not married, Master Pegasus held no legal rights to overturn the decision. She passed away three days after she had been admitted to the hospital.”

 

Isis is still quiet, feeling a pang of guilt upon knowing the true reason behind Pegasus' hatred of the abstract. It was not as superficial as she originally surmised.

 

“The funeral was held on their estate and she was transported to the family cemetery. After the service, he walked into the house, burned the Kline, and flew to Egypt some time later.”

 

Isis stares into the black sludge in her cup, the remains of the Turkish coffee. She never knew...

 

“CROQUET!!” Pegasus shouts from below in a commanding roar, having dismounted the lawnmower and standing with clenched fists at his side. “I NEED GASOLINE!”

 

“Is the mower running low, sir?”

 

“NO, YOU FOOL! IT'S TIME TO START THE BONFIRE! GET DOWN HERE AND HELP ME WITH THIS!!” Pegasus' tone changes immediately when his focus shifts from Croquet to Isis.

 

“ _Isis_ , my beloved,” he is almost singing when he says her name, reaching forward with his arms. “You've barely spoken to me since Vegas. Are you still mad at me?”

 

“No,” she says with a sad smile and a shake of her head.

 

_I was never angry with you. I just didn't understand..._

 

“Oh, good!” Pegasus hops with the affirmation. “After this is done, we can get started in the studio! I can barely wait! CROQUET, STOP GAWKING UP THERE AND HELP ME FINISH THIS!!”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

“You should be kinder to Croquet.”

 

“Oh, he knows I don't mean anything by it,” Pegasus literally waves off the comment as he puts together his setup in the studio. “He's had prior training with the CIA or FBI or ATF, some government agency with an acronym. If he survived that, then anything I throw at him rolls off like water on a duck.”

 

Isis wonders about the validity of the statement, but does not comment.

 

“You know, it was said of Van Gogh that other artists were appalled by his setup, but as I go through all my supplies, I can't help but think he would abhor mine!”

 

“But you're not painting me in an Impressionist style this time, are you?”

 

“Correct!” Pegasus confirms, excitedly running back and forth in the studio. “Now, I don't quite have _everything_ I need for the composition, but this session should be a good a warm up while we wait for the leopard to come in from Dubai.”

 

“E-excuse me?” Isis balks. Pegasus stares at her oddly before he has a surge of realization and taps his forehead once with his index finger.

 

“Ah, _yes_ , I never showed you what I had in mind, did I? Come over here with me and take a look.”

 

He takes her hand in his and guides her over to his personal library. The mahogany shelves take up the entirety of a wall and are overflowing with books, magazines, loose papers and sketches. The organizational system Pegasus uses is known only to him, and he clicks his tongue against his teeth as he searches with his fingertips.

 

“Once again, it is _so_ embarrassing it took me this long to realize what was missing when the answer was sitting here in my own home. Ah ha! Here it is, Volume One.” He pulls out a large paperback printed in the 70s and kisses the cover. “Mwa! The first in a series of masterpieces. _This_ is how I want to paint you.”

 

He taps the cover excitedly and Isis blinks as she tries to process what Pegasus just placed in her hands.

 

“... A fantasy pinup?”

 

“Not _just_ a fantasy pinup!” Pegasus guffaws. “ _The Egyptian Queen_! She's the first image you see without even having to open the book _._ She was selected to be the introductory image for the uninformed viewer, the definitive Frazetta girl!”

 

“So your idea of capturing my 'essence' is to illustrate me as a sensual pinup with Egyptian aesthetics?” Isis cocks her lips to the side and raises a brow, glancing between the artist and his reference. “Is this how you spent your free time in school?”

 

Pegasus drops his head backwards and looks to the ceiling, knitting his brow together and bringing his hands forward, fists clenched in desperation.

 

“You must look _beyond_ the shape, Madame Muad'Dib!” Pegasus sighs, moving his head back to a proper forward position before taking the art book out of her hands and flipping through the pages. “It's the underlying element that is important, the _theme_.”

 

“Fantastical erotica?”

 

“I don't deny either,” Pegasus confessed. “But that's the point! Other artists portray their nudes as coquettish, inviting, a _commodity_ that exists only for the male eye. Frazetta took the genre and turned it on its head! Yes, there is an unmistakeable erotic theme to it, but his women were not drawn merely as women; they are _forces of nature_ , tempests, they _challenge_ the viewer! With one misstep, a Frazetta threatens to tear a man to pieces. The environment of fantasy only adds to the depth of the piece; it gives one the impression of a deity that is not only _desired_ , but nigh _un_ _attainable_ by mortal hands!”

 

“Mmm,” Isis hums, still not entirely convinced with the argument. Pegasus sighs listlessly and places the book off to the side, taking Isis' hands in his as he guides her to his stool. As she takes a seat, he kneels before her and brings his forehead to her knuckles.

 

“Isis, what I said back in the museum wasn't spurious,” he begins, placing his lips against her hands and looking into her eyes. “You truly are _sublime_ , and that's what has been alluding me in all my portraits until now. I could never get _you_ right because I _was not getting you_. I kept falling back on what was familiar to my hands and trying to _force_ it all to work when I should have been more responsive to what was in front of me and adjusting in kind. I failed in painting you because instead of trying to find methods and styles that suited _you_ , I kept delving back into techniques that worked with Cyndia.”

 

Her breath stops in her throat at the mention of his prior love, a sense of inadequacy and jealousy and guilt all clinging to her mind. Pegasus can see it in her eyes, and it is a sensitive subject for both of them.

 

“... Pegasus, I can't replace her.”

 

“I don't expect you to!” Pegasus affirms quickly. “There will never be another Cyndia, just as there will never be another Isis. You are both unique, both your own persons, and I would never place the expectation on you to become her when you're magnificent as you are. No, you will never replace Cyndia; you were never _meant_ to do so. Isis, you are...”

 

As he tries to form the words, he is massaging her dark hands with a trained reverence, taking careful consideration in the texture of her palms, her digits, her knuckles beneath his fingertips, and wonders if he was a wanderer in another life. He imagines kneeling before a cloaked figure at an alter in an oasis, pouring wine at her feet in tribute and placing chaste kisses on limbs decorated in henna. He imagines lifting her veil and taking part in worship for a night, and in exchange, the promise to serve her for eternity. It's an exquisite notion, and he wonders if it explains the explicit familiarity of this touch between them.

 

“You are like something out of a dream,” Pegasus whispers into her palms. “Like something from beyond this place, as though you're from another realm entirely. It is what sustains me, yet it is maddening in so many ways.”

 

He cannot bring himself to look into her eyes as he places his forehead back to her knuckles.

 

“Isis, I know you have facetiously said that I, 'the majestic Pegasus,' bear the weight of the gods, but the truth of the matter is that you have always had more strength than I ever did in such matters. I brought the Egyptian Gods to our plain all those years ago, but it was _you_ who took them from my hands and saved me from an early grave. I may have carried them, for a time, but in the end, _you_ were the one who had the power to hold the Gods in your palm and bury them in the earth.”

 

“A lot of good that did,” Isis mutters, looking off to the side.

 

“Don't lament on your failures, my love,” Pegasus chastises her, quoting her own words from a year ago. “If it can be called 'failure'. Despite all that, things turned out as they did, and you played a crucial role in it all. Because of your actions, we are here, now, _together_ , and I will always be indebted to you for sparing me their wrath. Their vengeance would have destroyed me, but it was your will and your guidance that saved me. It was all possible because of your initiative, your resolve to see it through. This is only possible because you have a touch of the divine— _No_ , not a touch. As I've said so many time times before, _you_ _are_ _divine_.”

 

“I think you give me far too much credit...”

 

He can _feel_ the heat radiating from her cheeks, and he smiles into her knuckles.

 

“You don't give yourself enough,” Pegasus says, a gentle riposte. “Do you have any idea how _good_ you have been for me? I ask myself almost every day what I have done to _deserve_ you. There have been mornings when I wake up beside you and I can't believe it's all real. This is why the style of Frazetta suits you so: each day with you is an ethereal experience, like I've entered a fantasy and never left.”

 

“... You _really_ want to paint me in an elaborate loincloth, don't you?”

 

He hears her voice waver, a strange sound to his ears, and looks up. A tear makes its way down her cheek and her smile saddens him as greatly as he finds it enchanting. He leans up to kiss the tear, then her lips, taking her face in his hands as he moves to press his lips to the space below the gem on her forehead, an act of devotion.

 

“If my goddess amalgam will allow it.”

 

“On one condition,” she says, putting a finger to his lips and looking into his eye.

 

“You name it.”

 

“Cancel the order for the leopard.”

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

Pegasus spends a brief period mourning a lost opportunity— a proper Frazetta should have a beastly feline at her beck and call, but he accepts her reasoning in that posing with a grown leopard would put her life in unnecessary danger, and Isis would not allow him to name it Sheeta and let it run amok on the island when all was done. Such a loss!

 

It is a small loss, however, in that Pegasus reminds himself that he does not have to _replicate_ a Frazetta detail for detail. What he needs to do is channel the spirit, bring forth the ambiance to match the intensity of his subject. There is no great need to have a ferocious cat at her feet or a looming sentry in the shadows, no need for embellishments. For Isis is the focus, the center, and when he paints her this time, he _will_ do her justice. It will be _her_ in the portrait, not just her image.

 

First things first, he has to make additions to his studio. The supplies are ready, but the atmosphere isn't correct. The portrait will be titled _The Egyptian Queen Redux_ , but Isis is more than a queen. She is his goddess amalgam, and she must have a temple. He has marble flown in from Egypt, along with elaborate carpet inlaid with an elegant _Nymphaea lotus_ motif in a brilliant lapis lazuli against a scarlet background. He contacts another old friend of his father's and buys an elusive piece of pottery from his private art collection. He pays another hefty sum for an ornate incense burner, and Isis cannot contain her amazement as she glides her hands over the Persian artistry.

 

“Where did you _get_ this?” she gasps. “It's from the final era of the _Mudrāya_! Have you any idea how _difficult_ it is to find anything from the temples of that period? And in this condition?!”

 

“Would you like it for the museum in Cairo when we're done?” he chuckles.

 

She realizes how childlike she sounds and tries to remedy her dignity, trying and failing to temper the wonder in her eyes.

 

“... If you would be so kind to donate it, yes.”

 

He is already a proud man, but he finds himself ever more cocksure as he buys more for the portrait and sees Isis' eyes alight with the relics. The authenticity is reviewed once, twice, and a final time as Isis cannot help marveling at the pristine acquisitions. Before the spirit of Frazetta had shaken him out of his rut, Pegasus' research had guided him through eras of antiquity, and while he does not know _all_ the facts regarding each piece, Isis' confirmation and delight in seeing the artifacts cements his certainty. He isn't going to do this half-way; everything needs to be genuine, possess a hallowed aura, be something regarded with the exact veneration of which she deserves. Anything less would be an act of sacrilege.

 

After his staff hauls the heavy marble into his studio, he carves the steps, the pillar, the platform of which she will stand. It takes half a year of work, many late nights and early mornings in between his day job and tending to his beloved, but it is what must be done if he is to get this _right_. It will all be done by his hands and his eye, his time and his dedication, his _heart_ and his _soul_ , and if he is to perish by the end of his work, then it would be worthwhile so long as it will be _Isis_ _Ishtar_ on that canvas.

 

When the shrine is completed, he lights candles and incense throughout the studio, opening the windows a crack to allow for some ventilation. Isis observes the ritual with crossed arms, hands cradling her elbows, and stares at the platform she is to rest from the bottom of the steps. There is a foreboding air to the scenery with the dim lighting as smoke wafts in the air. The elaborate masonry and hallowed relics remind her of the ruins she once called home, and there is a blasphemous sensation she cannot rattle. What would her gods think of this man placing her upon that pedestal? For her to be dressed as she is now...

 

“Why so timid?” Pegasus asks, reaching for her hands and holding them to either side to observe her. “There is no need to be shy. You're _radiant_.”

 

Isis is articulate, exact in her diction, yet in that moment, she finds it difficult to express what she feels. In addition to the artifacts and the shrine, Pegasus had ordered a sum of gold and fabric and had it all tailored to her form. Atop her head rests an intricate design, a headdress of gilded multicolored wings framing her face and flaring backward to form a crest, resembling the rays of the sun, the Eye of Wjdat staring out from the center above her forehead, thin chains of gold with small, intermittent carnelians and azurite draped in a circle around her favored jade. At her neck, a rich indigo silk with gold edges, weaving around like a scarf to trace down her back like a cape. The colors match the loin skirt, high slits up the sides revealing voluptuous thighs and the sensuous curve of the iliac crest, a multicolored illustration of intertwining animals on the cloth: a ferocious whirlwind of stags, lions, bulls, rams, serpents, and eagles, and she wonders just how much of it is going to show in the portrait. There is nearly nothing to the back save for ties to keep it about her hips, as the most substance to the fabric is at the front, four meters in total length intended to flow from her pelvis to decorate the steps of the shrine when she leans against the pillar, a peculiar aesthetic in practice; she will have to grab it in bunches so she doesn't trip when she makes the ascent.

 

The loin skirt does not bother her quite so much; she is being painted from the front. What makes her feel bare are the wisps of gold at her breasts, two water lilies with thin leaves linking to her backside to keep them in their place at the front so it does not slip, and she feels odd without gold bands about her wrists, waist, or ankles. The precious metals are replaced with henna reaching from her fingertips to the center of her forearms, her toes to the center of her calves, and at her navel is an eight-pointed star. Never has she felt so decorated and so naked all at once. The only thing that feels natural is the kohl lining and turquoise shadow around her eyes.

 

“I just...” she begins, and Pegasus reflects the motion of her biting her lip. “I've posed nude for you so many times, but _this_ is... different.”

 

“You have 'the jitters'?” Pegasus moves his hands gingerly about her shoulders, taking a moment to brush the raven strands that peak from underneath the headdress. There is a small, nervous curl to the corner of her mouth.

 

“'Anxiety' is not quite the word. I feel more...” She struggles once more to find the appropriate description. “... Exposed, but not in a physical sense.”

 

“But a _metaphysical_ sense?” Pegasus drawls, leaning his head as close as he can to hers without touching the headdress. “I can _feel_ it just looking at you. The universe will tear me asunder if I mar your divinity. One wrong stroke and I shall be wiped from existence.”

 

“ _Pegasus_ ,” Isis chastises him. “I understand you are taking some artistic license with all this, but I must reiterate that I am only _human_. I bleed just as you do.”

 

“Not true,” he says. “Here you stand before me, yet you bleed once a mo—”

 

She cannot resist lightly tapping his cheek with her fingertips.

 

“Do not tempt me into ruining the henna.”

 

“What?” he teases with a cocky grin, massaging the cheek she touched with one hand while pointing to the red jewels at her headdress with the other. “The ancients were never prudish about such things. We both know what all those carnelians represent.”

 

Her eyes glance to the ceiling and she shakes her head with an exasperated smile.

 

“Think what you will of me, if it suits you,” Isis concedes, looking down to gather the fabric of her loin skirt before taking charge to the shrine steps. “'I am the one whom you have pursued, and I am the one whom you have seized'.”

 

“ _The Thunder, Perfect Mind_? Ah ha! So you _do_ believe yourself beyond us mere mortals!” Pegasus laughs as he follows her to her place on the platform. “It is claimed that your namesake was the narrator of that poem, you know.”

 

“So I've heard,” she counters with a small smirk, leaning against the expanse of the marble pillar as they had practiced so many times prior in other sessions. Pegasus chuckles in response, humming happily to himself as he adjusts the silk fabric of the loin skirt to the correct ratio of ridges and folds for the painting.

 

She observes him kneeling on the marble platform before her, reverent hands smoothing themselves over the stretch of indigo and gold, draping the steps with a ritualistic flourish. Isis feels the smirk fade from her lips as the scent of incense wafts through the air, and the lids of her eyes fall midway, a sudden rush of energy spreading from her head to the star at her navel as he continues to hum on his knees and handle the cloth at her henna covered feet. Her hands grip the smooth surface of the marble and she exhales sharply through her teeth, a fire brimming in her chest.

 

Pegasus cranes his head to meet her gaze and furrows his brow at the sound.

 

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “Why did you hiss?”

 

The haze disappears from her eyes as she blinks, cosmic black giving way to sparkling sapphire, and she purses her lips.

 

“Ah, nothing. Just nerves, I guess,” she utters, unsure, uncertain of what she just felt. “I am going to be in this position for a while...”

 

“I know I've asked so much of you,” Pegasus smiles apologetically, his amber eye gleaming in the low lighting of the studio. “I have only made it thus far because of your patience and understanding. You have been so gracious with me, and it is my regret that I must be selfish for just a little while longer. Grant me your time, my muse, my goddess amalgam, and I know, I _promise_ , this painting will be the one that does you justice.”

 

Pegasus bows his head with the vow and goes back to adjusting the fabric at her feet, and with this action, he misses the vibrant, ephemeral glint in her eyes.

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

Pegasus is gripped by very frenzy that guided his hands so many years ago when he undertook the task of painting the Egyptian Gods. Once the brush touches the canvas, he does not stop. Though he sits, he is always moving, eye roaming, fingers gripping a brush handle or squeezing a new tube of paint onto his pallet, wrist rotating in swift motions. He knows the environment inside and out, the atmosphere is everything he envisioned, and Isis— Isis has always been something of a vision, something that taunted his capabilities, a spirit that has eluded his hands, but in this moment, this time, she is within his grasp, and Pegasus will not let her go until he has captured her in her entirety from her throne in the heavens.

 

If there is weight in his eye, he does not acknowledge it, and he refutes the cramping in his hands and back. To succumb to such agony is for lesser men, and he is not a mere man. _He_ is _Pegasus_ , he who inspires mankind and carries the burdens of the gods, and he will not bend or break under the pressure of the divine. He escaped the wrath of Obelisk, Osiris, and Ra, all in part to the goddess who is observing him from her place on the shrine: she who is splendid and brilliant beyond compare, she who has endured his mania and obsession, she who waits at the pillar with an equanimity he cannot fathom. He will not insult her past efforts, her benevolence, her blessings with weakness. He will finish; _he_ _will_ _finish_ and _she_ _will_ _be_ _complete_.

 

They had begun before the sun broke the surface and bled magenta into the sky, and he does not finish until a crescent moon hangs among the stars. His blouse is soaked through with sweat and small droplets of perspiration splash to the floor as the final strokes of his name are beset in the lower left corner with the flourish of a finishing draw in a duel. His breath is heavy in his chest and his hair sticks to his face as he stares at the painting, mouth agape with his panting. Isis dares to tilt her head in question as he holds the brush off to the side— neither of them have said a word to each other since they started.

 

“Are you finished?” she asks, her voice carrying a calm air, and there is something else she cannot place. She has not seen his face since disappearing behind the canvas and easel, only catching glimpses of his eye throughout the morning, day, and night. She is elated when he reveals his head, and for the first time in ages, he looks wholly satisfied with what he has done.

 

“It's finished,” he confirms, his voice so worn, so tired, as though he has been running over mountain ranges and spinning in circles, as though he is a dervish on the verge of collapsing and transcending to the other sphere. He rolls his wrist inward to beckon her over so she can finally see herself for all she is, to know her true self through his eye, to affirm he has succeeded in his task. She steps down, carefully, traversing sideways as not to trample the fabric of the skirt, and rounds her way behind him. He has just enough presence of mind to be aware of how damp his hands are from the effort and wipes them against the calves of his pants. He wants to hold her, look at her eyes when she sees the portrait, and there is a minute lamentation in that he knows he won't be able to capture that moment when it comes. He shrugs it off, inwardly, for these memories are meant to be private. It will be an experience only shared between them.

 

He gingerly places an arm around her waist as she stands behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and scanning the portrait. He stares up at her with an anticipatory grin, and it broadens, shines with pride as he sees her eyes jolt open with gasp and her fingers dig into his shoulders. The pain is welcome as she relieves the tension built up in the muscles there, and he sighs as he sees her expression melt from shock to adulation.

 

“That's _me_?” she asks, and her voice quivers, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Pegasus replies, reaching up to cup her chin, brushing his thumb across her cheek to wipe away a tear. “That's _you_. Not the body; not the shape; not the visage; it is you _, Isis_ _Ishtar_ , and I have toiled for so long to bestow your essence. Does it suit you well?”

 

He already knows the answer, but he wants to hear it. Never have any of his portraits invoked such a reaction from her. He knows he has succeeded in his quest, but he so dearly wants to hear praise from her lips.

 

“It _pleases_ me,” she says airily, without the prior quiver. Her reply is crisp and the corner of her lips turn up into a small, collected smirk. Pegasus blinks and his own lips purse as he observes the shift in her eyes. Where there was once a shining blue sea, there appears a shimmer across black waters, akin to stars spread across the sky. Had her eyes dilated that much? He remembers reading somewhere that such a reaction was due to excitement, an attraction of sorts. Did his work spark desire?

 

“I think a reward is in order for all your hard work,” she intones, moving her hands from his shoulders to cup the edges of his jaw. Absurdly, Pegasus misses the undertone of the words and instead worries about his sweat smearing the henna on her hands, and then his eye widens as he remembers a preparation he had made before they started.

 

“A _reward_! Of course! So good of you to bring that up!” Pegasus says jovially. “Wait here! I have a surprise!”

 

She is not disappointed, but her lips settle into a firm line as she cocks her brow in inquiry when he rises from his seat and slips from her fingers. She presses her palms and fingers together, elbows pointing outward and turning her chin up with a curious air as he sprints out of the studio and returns two minutes later with a gift.

 

“Ta-da!” He presents her with a wine basket, and she blinks appreciatively when she sees the label on the bottle.

 

“Lebanese wine?”

 

“ _Cave du monastère_ _S_ _t. Jean,_ ” Pegasus preens with a wink. “One of the oldest producers. I thought it appropriate for the occasion, and it is well deserved after I've put you through so much.”

 

“How thoughtful,” she hums with a hungry glint, henna-coated fingers flexing, mandalas and hieroglyphs dancing in a wave with the motion. “And the honey there?”

 

“To have with the desserts,” Pegasus points to each item in the basket. “We haven't eaten all day, and I am wise to your affinity for sweets. Aish El-Saraya, baklava, and of course, om ali. I thought it best to have this little jar on the side so you could add the honey as you wished.”

 

“You've certainly done your research,” she whispers, eyes aglow with a sinuous thought. “Shall we dine on the temple floor?”

 

The words sound more as a command than a suggestion.

 

“The platform?” Pegasus repeats, glancing at the pristine slab.

 

“You've gone through all the trouble to grab all this from the kitchen, and I do not think I am wayward in thinking you are not in much of a mood to run back. So let us celebrate _here_ ,” she coos, eyes sparkling with mirth as she curves her fingers in a “come hither” gesture, ascending the steps of her shrine. Pegasus feels his shoulders slump with a lazy shrug and a lazier smile. The lighting is low, the bulbs dimmed for ambiance, the brightest of the light coming from the moon outside the window, thin highlights bouncing off the lines of the steps. He is tired, and feels somewhat unkempt with the sweat drying on his skin, but Isis is so inviting, so brilliant among the relics and marble of her domain. How can he say “no” to partaking in wine and honey with a goddess in her temple?

 

“Sit here,” she instructs a spot next to the pillar, where she had once stood, and he obeys without question. He pulls out two glasses from the basket and takes out the corkscrew, resting his back against the stone as he begins to work on opening the wine bottle. He notes that the marble is still warm from her body having been pressed against it for a day and nearly all of a night.

 

“Your work is impressive,” she purrs, tracing her fingers along the stone of the pillar, stepping with the air of a leopard hiding in tall grass. The fabric of her loin skirt encircles the smooth beam with the movement. “Your dedication is profound. For you to have put so much of _yourself_ into all this, to labour and toil to the point of _madness_ , so you could seize my essence on a canvas...”

 

“'Seize' is a rather aggressive word,” Pegasus chortles, eye focused on his hand twisting the screw into the cork. “I know there was so much talk of 'capturing you' in paint, but I do not embellish when I confess it is out of veneration. You deserve nothing less than the best that I can give, Madame Muad'Dib.”

 

“'The Great Lady Who Points the Way,'” she murmurs. “You have always connected me to the heavens, Pegasus?”

 

“Your birth name has never offered room for alternate interpretation,” he quips, licking his lip as he tugs on the cork. It isn't coming out as easily as he hoped, even with the leverage from the tool. She takes a moment to admire the sinewy lines of his forearms as he fights the vacuum in the bottle. “ _Isis_ _Ishtar_. Born underground, but destined to live a life in the light, and fated to depart to your throne in the stars while your poor, overworked steed struggles... with... this... cork!”

 

With a harsh grunt, it comes out with a loud “pop!” and he stares at it in bewilderment.

 

“I may as well have hooves with the amount of work it took to get that out!” With an agitated roll of his eye, he flicks the cork and screw back into the basket and reaches for a wine glass. Before he can put the lip of the bottle above the rim, a decorated hand hovers above the glass.

 

“Stop,” is all she says. He obeys, but knits his brow in response.

 

“I thought you wanted to drink?”

 

“Oh, I _do_ ,” she drawls. “But these have done enough work for now.”

 

She crouches before him and takes the bottle and glass, setting them aside before taking his hands into hers, running her thumbs over his knuckles before placing her lips atop them.

 

“The hands of an artist,” she intones, peering into his eye with a hungry stare, a dark, Milky Way piercing into his soul. “ _These_ hands, which dare to paint gods, dare to plunge into the fray of the divine and leave unscathed. These hands that have given life to stone tablets and have built a shrine in my honor. These hands that have held me in esteemed reverence at night and have left me an exhausted heap by morn.”

 

There is a blush across his cheeks as she gingerly bites a digit at the memories.

 

“These hands, which have done me a great justice and have brought forth _my_ _true self._ It is with these hands I received a _great_ offering from the magnificent Pegasus, my loyal mount, and it would be so _poor_ of me not to give you my gratitude after such an impressive tribute. So, for now...”

 

Pegasus had become so absorbed with the feeling of her lips on his hands, what poured from those lips, whatever was in those eyes, that he hadn't noticed the indigo silk of her skirt wrapping about his wrists.

 

“ _These_ take a rest.”

 

He only becomes aware of the silk's presence when she cinches the knot and hoists his hands above his head with a swift pull, and he finds they are trapped there. He gasps, mouth falling open and going dry with a sudden thirst.

 

“You clever little minx,” he smirks, eye narrowing. So _that's_ why she had circled the pillar earlier while he was fussing with the wine. Leave it to Isis Ishtar to find a utilitarian use for all that decorative fabric.

 

“ _Minx_?” she says disapprovingly, taking his chin in her hand and shaking it ever so slightly. “What happened to ' _goddess_ _amalgam_ '?”

 

“Forgive me for the momentary transgression. After so many _tiring_ hours of work, your steed is fatigued and forgot his place,” he utters, struggling to contain his grin. Oh, what an interesting game this is going to be!

 

She strokes his cheek with her thumb, a low laugh trapped in her throat and expressing itself through the rise and fall of her chest as her lips curl in a smug smile.

 

“The steed is _fortunate_ he is so handsome, else he would have faced harsher reprimand. I do not take joy in tarnishing beautiful things.”

 

He bites his lip in anticipation and wonders what she has in store for him as she releases the buckles of his suspenders with two snaps and straddles his waist. His heart skips a beat when she claws at the top of his blouse, and buttons fly when nails tear at the center to reveal his torso. There is a slight frustration in that even after restraining him to the pillar, she still has ample material left to the skirt, hiding a delectable sight, and her right hand drifts into his blind spot. His brow lifts as the wine reappears and she swirls the bottle in a circle above him.

 

“My thanks to you.”

 

He hisses as the wine splashes against his bare chest and drips down his torso, and the fermented liquid makes his shirt stick to his flesh. Absurdly, he thinks of how the shirt will need to be thrown away, that the wine will never wash out, but the thought is silenced with a groan as her tongue laps at the wine with long, tantalizing licks across his chest. The goddess atop him grows more decadent as she opens the jar of honey and drizzles it along with the wine. She revels in watching him tug uselessly at his binds and is emboldened in hearing the small, wanton sounds that fall from his lips as she savors the mingling flavors on her tongue: the fruity notes of the wine, the floral sweetness of the honey, the salt of his sweat from his labors. Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she imagines how terribly cross he would be if he knew of her thoughts as she poured the rich liquids over his body, thinking herself a wicked artist as she treats him like a canvas.

 

Man exercises their will through objects, but she is a goddess, and the divine do not work through things— they act through people. Who better to serve this purpose than her loyal mount, pale skin aglow in the moonlight and so willing to succumb to her ministrations? Oh, yes, how terribly, _terribly_ cross he would be, as she watches the wine dribble from the mouth of the bottle and splash against his flexed stomach, that she thinks of the gestural abstractionists. How heinous in that she _underst_ _an_ _d_ _s_ their craft where Pegasus abhors them so. How terrible of her to enjoy the art of wayward technique and improvisation, to cherish the _action_ as opposed to the end result.

 

Her dear Pegasus slaved for a year and a night to achieve a _flawless_ tribute, a painstaking effort, a sacrifice none other could make in her stead. So much work, so much _pain_ , for her sake and _in_ _her_ _name._ Yet she has bound him to a pillar forged from his endeavors with silk of which he wrapped her with such reverence, only to have her take pleasure in _this:_ watching the slow, taunting flow in a string of honey, marveling at the gold blending with red at his navel before dipping into the cavity and cherishing _that_ _sound_ , a cross between a throaty moan and a desperate whimper, and she _loves_ that only _he_ can make it in that moment. He has made many sounds like it, their dalliances and congress working to rival the stars that dot the sky, but _that_ _moment_ is unique to her, to _them_ , and powerful as she is and passionate as he is, they will not be able to replicate that single moment again— the action is done, the time has passed, and even a goddess amalgam must bow to Chronos.

 

So instead of lamenting on the past, she celebrates the new moments. For so long as she has Pegasus, so long as she has his devotion, his loyalty, his adoration, she can continue to cherish the actions between them. She knows this, values this, _understands_ this, but she dare not speak of such things. Action painting is taboo, and to take part in the taboo just makes the moment all the more _exciting_!

 

“A-ah, Isis! Teeth!” Pegasus shouts. His fingertips grasp in futility at the silk bonds as he arches his back, hips rolling to recoil and thrust back into the intoxicating blend of pleasure and pain. Instead of an apology and a promise to be more mindful, she ignores the complaint and pours more honey and wine on the throbbing shaft, teeth dragging along the length and tongue delving underneath the foreskin, torturing the head in circular sweeps to have her fill. Pegasus has no grievances to her ministrations, but he cannot help but feel as though there is something amiss to the behavior. They are certainly not strangers to _this_ , but there has always been a careful method to Isis, always observing and adjusting to the moment, a back-and-forth energy, a cooperative effort between them, and above all, _gentle_. As she is now, however, he has had no turn, no feedback, and she is taking what she pleases as she sees fit. It is an aggression, a greed that is alien to the both of them, and he gathers what control he has to tilt his head down to look at her place above him.

 

It takes a moment, but the lusty haze clears from his head and his breath hitches in his throat. Pegasus was well aware of the dark personalities bestowed by some of the Millennium Items, of the corruption they caused to their holders. Yet the Millennium Torque she once held had always been an Item of light, and even if that analysis were incorrect, Pegasus was still familiar with the energy of the Items. In that knowledge, he is chilled in that it all has absolutely _nothing_ to do with what he sees in Isis' eyes. It is not darkness, but _fire:_ a legacy of stars and supernovas, realms of which lesser men reached the brink of madness in their search for attainment, the fury of which he felt all those years ago when he beheld the Egyptian Gods in the dreamscape.

 

Too late does he realize, as henna-covered hands roam up and down and a devious tongue dances along his generous length, that he has brought another god to the this plain with his artistry. He must have shown some sort of reaction, because he witnesses her sybaritic smile chisel itself into a predatory grin.

 

“My, my, you _notice_ now, do you?” she titters with a playful nip. “Why so surprised? Was it not you who dared to render _my_ _true self_ , on the night of _my_ _moon,_ when the eight points of _my_ _star_ reaches for all horizons?”

 

He dares to glance at the window above them and beholds none other than a brilliant crescent moon cradling the shining light of Venus, and there is an audible gulp in his throat. His hunger, his drive, his will, all of it had been perfectly aligned with the cosmos. Perhaps there really _was_ something to all those astrology articles in the Sunday paper.

 

“Why so nervous?” she asks with a tantalizing lick to the underside of the shaft. “Do I terrify you so?”

 

Pegasus cannot form a coherent answer as she takes his entirety into her mouth, massaging the rest with her hands, smiling around the throbbing flesh as she sees him throw his head back with a gasp. He is shaking in her grasp, pulling himself off the ground in his bonds in an attempt to thrust deeper into the wet velvet of her mouth. Surely, then, he isn't _that_ scared of her?

 

He is heaving as he places his chin back to his chest, vision blurry from the stimulation and his fingertips tingling from the restraint. When Pegasus regains his vision, he catches her stare once more as she slides her lips upward, kissing the tip with the exit.

 

“Do you _fear_ me?” she asks. There is a tenderness to the words and the sharp glint in her eyes turns to a shimmer. He recognizes the change, and he realizes how foolish he had been upon first impression. Yes, there is an empyrean fire to the goddess before him, but it is not a heat that dares to light him ablaze or strike him down like the Egyptian Gods from the sacred tablet. She burns with the force of the star connected to her name, a force that inspires dread if she so wishes, but between them, what she wills is for that fire to spark desire within him. It is a heat meant to nourish him, to cultivate passion.

 

“... No,” he finally says, eye softening and head shaking with affirmation. “I would be a poor charge if I feared My Lady.”

 

With those words, the glint returns behind her pupils and an emboldened smile paints itself across her lips.

 

“I am pleased to hear that,” she says, rising from her place and positioning herself above him. “Now, relax and _enjoy_.”

 

If Shadi had chosen to appear at that very moment and said that fucking her would bring about the end of the world, Pegasus wouldn't have cared. A cry tears at his throat and she releases a satisfied sigh as she sinks herself onto him, resting her hands on his shoulders and settling around the fulfilling girth. She moans as her hands move to grip the hair at his scalp and arches her back as she relishes a delightful sensation, the pressure of him against the entrance of her womb. A small frustration still irks Pegasus as the loin skirt still hides everything from his view, but it melts from his mind the moment she puts her forehead to his and cradles his head between her hands.

 

Pegasus tries to kiss her, but instead grits his teeth and shudders when she does something that can only be described as witchcraft. He can only watch her smirk coyly as the star around her navel flexes ever so slightly in the moonlight of her shrine. She is still above him, brushing his cheek with her thumb and twirling a silver strand of his hair around her finger, but her hips do not move. Instead, she creates waves, a searing heat that flows from the tip of his cock and ripples to the base, spreads into his stomach, his chest, thrums through his extremities and causes fingers and toes to curl. It is a tension so strong, it seizes his vocal cords and he cannot scream; it is a pleasure so great it is almost painful.

 

She continues to milk him in this manner, taking immense joy in watching him struggle against his bonds and gasping for breath. He soon becomes frantic for more contact, bucking his hips into her in the hopes that she will move, undulate with him, but her hands move from his head to his waist and she shifts her weight so he is pinned to the marble floor.

 

He is quaking before her, shivering as though he has been yanked from the bottom of a frozen lake, and is far too aware of the silk that binds his wrists. He is an _artist_ , he who casts his hands into the fray of the divine, he who dares to render the sublime, and the once welcome indulgence of his bondage has become torture. Under her ministrations, her ethereal heat, she has made him a desperate wreck. He is a selfish man, a fool who toys with fate, and where most men would be happy with _this_ , to have a goddess subject them to her wicked service, he still wants more.

 

“Isis, _please_ ,” he begs, tears pricking the corners of his eye. “Please, let me touch you. I _need_ to touch you.”

 

She stalls in her ministrations and something else flashes across her eyes. Shock? Pity? Concern? Repulsion? Had he insulted her gift of thanks? He didn't quite know what he saw in her eyes then; the reaction is brief, and it disappears just as quickly as he has registered it.

 

“Is that so?” she drawls with a smirk that shows little worry for his disheveled state. She is not a _cold_ god, however, and wipes away the tear that threatens to stream down his face, before she dips her thumb into the open honey container and places it over his lips as the rest of her fingers curl around his cheek.

 

“So my steed wants more than a relaxed rut in my temple? Such an _insatiable_ thing you are,” she intones, taking a moment to enjoy the sensation and sight of his tongue lapping at the honey on her thumb. He finds some comfort in the sweetness of the gold liquid and is soothed by the tea-like flavor of the henna underneath.

 

“All this effort to make you work less, and still you _bray_ for more,” she continues, eyes sparkling with mischief as she contemplates the silk at his wrists. “Hmm, if that's what you truly _desire_ , then let's put that mouth to good use.”

 

Pegasus is more than willing to fulfill all the implications, so he finds himself rather confused when she leans back and holds his chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes are half-lidded, gazing at him as though she is observing him from a balcony.

 

“Worship me.”

 

He blinks at the command and his mouth is agape. He isn't entirely certain on how to go about carrying out the task when he is tied to a pillar. There is a low chuckle in her throat as she decides to elaborate.

 

“ _Worship_ _me_ ,” she repeats. “Convince me, _please_ _me_ , and I will release you from your bonds. Pledge your undying devotion. Prove yourself as my loyal mount and show you are worthy of carrying me forth from the heavens to the realm of man. _Praise_ _me_ and s _ay_ _my_ _name_.”

 

There is a pause, uncertainty, as the request seems too easy, but Pegasus manages to utter her name with a shudder.

 

“Isis...”

 

She places her arms across her chest and raises a brow with pursed lips, a minute smirk, as though to say “Really?”

 

_I know you did more research than that, Pegasus. Think hard, now._

 

Pegasus is vexed at the reaction before it clicks. _Isis_ , his Isis and her namesake, is the embodiment of compassion, the goddess of fate, of the throne, of _magic_ , a goddess who works miracles. She is a romantic who adores lit candles and incense, partakes in honey and milk. Isis is a benevolent deity who will do anything for those who revere her and understands the obstacles of the oppressed, for she is a woman who has been oppressed so many times herself. She is a goddess of insurmountable empathy, the epitome of unconditional love.

 

_Praise me and say my name._

 

But the goddess upon him is not Isis. She is not the goddess of fate and love, but of war and _desire_. Before him is the goddess who takes up sword and shield, the goddess who rides a chariot pulled by lions and sends her dogs to seek out the survivors, the goddess who consumes wine as though it is water and dashes the empty jugs against her temple's walls, the goddess whose lust burns with all the fire of her star in the sky. She is the goddess who is uncompromising, _demands_ unyielding devotion, and _may_ fulfill your wishes, should you please her so.

 

“ _Ishtar_ ,” he shivers. The volatile half of her name, what he summoned with his portrait. He groans as she adjusts her hips in acknowledgment, but she makes no move to untie him as her arms stay at their place across her chest.

 

_That's a little bit better._

 

He is at a loss as she remains still on his person, and she smiles at his bewilderment. She unhinges her arms from her chest and rolls her wrists in a forward wheeling motion with an expectant gaze.

 

 _Don't stop._ _Keep_ _going_.

 

Yet Pegasus is stymied, head flooding with question marks and short-circuiting at the warm pressure between his legs, completely trapped at her core.

 

“You _claim_ to know what I am,” she hints with arched brows and hands on her voluptuous hips in an authoritative stance. “You _understand_ what I am.”

 

With those words, it is as though she has struck him with a bolt of lightning. His proclamation in the museum, his research blended with Frazetta's motif— _of_ _course_!! She did not want him to call upon fragments of herself. She wanted him to call upon her entire identity, her _identities_! For the woman upon him is not _a_ goddess. She is a goddess _amalgam_ , and she is not one or the other; she is both and all.

 

“ _Isis Ishtar_ ,” Pegasus begins, and she smiles appreciatively as he draws out both names. “Queen of the Throne; Queen of the Earth; Queen of Heaven...”

 

Her fingers move from her hips with a nod of approval, hooking behind his neck with a pleasant hum as he lists her many titles. She lifts herself, slightly, and allows him room to start moving his hips again.

 

 _Very_ _good_.

 

“The Great Lady,” Pegasus continues. He speaks with effort, as the pressure between his legs builds when she begins to move with his thrusts. “Mistress of Magic; Great of Sorcery; Star of the Sea...”

 

Her eyes develop a soft edge, for these are the titles of Isis, and her fingers stroke his jaw with gratitude and her hips roll as smoothly as the words pour from his mouth. Yet Pegasus knows there is more to her than that.

 

“Lady of Conflict; Lady of Battle; Lady of Victory,” he calls upon Ishtar again, and her eyes shift back to the sharp, starved glint, gripping his hair in balled fists as though holding a pair of reigns with an ecstatic moan. His shaking increases with the harsh tug, and the numbness in his hands almost pales in comparison to the growing intensity of the roll in her hips. He wonders of her thoughts with the erratic change in pace. Did she see battlefields at the words? Did she imagine riding across desert sands and toppling armies in her wake?

 

“The Many Named and The One Who is All,” he strains, sweat dripping down his brow, calling upon her entirety. Yet there is one path, one designation that means more to him than all others, and if this is his goddess amalgam, his beloved Isis Ishtar, then she will understand the weight of the title.

 

“ _Redemptress.”_

 

There is a pause, a hitch in her breath at the word. The glint of swords and vitality of battle bends to the current of the stars and the sea, and she works to synch her movement with his and massages his scalp. Her lips are so tantalizingly close to his, he can feel her breath, but she is still out of range. He must keep speaking, continue his praise if he is to do right by her and please her in full.

 

“She Who Is Joy, it is only by your hands that I live so,” he starts, eye cloudy and chest heaving, a tired smile to his face as he slows the pace of his thrusts, much to her surprise. “For you perform miracles, and you have performed the greatest magic in that you have given me the gift of _life._ In this, you have been most generous to me. For in your wake, you not only saved me from the wrath of the Egyptian Gods, but have given me a second chance to truly _live_.”

 

He can feel her shuddering, shaking, _vibrating_ with the energy, and she looks as though she is close to tears with his words.

 

“ _My goddess amalgam_ ,” Pegasus intones. “I have committed atrocities, have wronged others for my gain, and paid a terrible price for my deeds. Yet just as I am damned to bear this scar on my face to remind me of my transgressions, I stand as a blessed man— because of you. It is because of _your_ adoration, _your_ devotion, _your_ loyalty that I could move on from that past and truly _live_. It is a gift none other could give me, for it is the gift of you, _Isis_ _Ishta_ _r;_ it is all _you_.”

 

“ _Pegasus_ ,” she weeps. Though tears fall from her eyes, her smile is gracious and glowing in the light of her shrine. “Come to me.”

 

With a single pull, she undoes the knot that binds him to the pillar, and all the pinpricks and needles that flow back to his hands cannot contend with the smoldering warmth that rushes through his loins as he greedily wraps his arms around her and brings her flush against his chest. When her mouth parts to accept his tongue, he is flooded with an intoxicating blend, the sweetness of honey and wine over the ketones of lust. So much like that vision from years past as he stood in the wake of the Egyptian Gods, there is a blinding flash of light and his body _burns_. However, this time, instead of searing pain and waking in overwhelming terror, the flames that engulf him are warm, and he slips into a tranquil stupor.

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

“I can't believe I _said_ all of that.”

 

The mandalas and hieroglyphs of the henna on her hands hide her face. Isis still looks every bit as flawless as she had at the beginning of their session, headdress, fabric, and eyeliner still intact, but her regal air is replaced with one of mortification as she is sitting up against the pillar. The generous (and once insidious) fabric of the loin skirt lays on the ground and sprawls to cover Pegasus' own nether region like a blanket. He chuckles and sips on a glass of wine as he glances up at her from his resting place on her lap.

 

“I told you that you are divine, but you didn't believe me.”

 

“I still cannot fathom...” she trails off, lifting her hands from her face and reaching for a serving of aish el-saraya, breaking off the bread and dipping it in the honey before offering it to Pegasus. “That was all me.”

 

“Did it feel like an 'out of body' experience? Like you lost control?” Pegasus beams, reaching for a piece of baklava and taking joy in seeing her chew on the offered morsel.

 

“Not at all!” Isis says with a knitted brow, reaching for her own wine glass. “That is what terrifies me. I never felt more _in control_ in my life than I did in that moment, and I...”

 

She still cannot find the words, so she instead takes a sip of wine before setting the glass down to reach for the bowl of om ali, helping herself to the rich pudding dish with a small spoon.

 

“Such a curious thing,” Pegasus says. “Mayhaps I should start off all my mornings burning incense and leaving dishes of milk as offering?”

 

She bops the top of his head with the spoon, sulking.

 

“This isn't a laughing matter. I am in a ludicrous existential crisis whereupon I am questioning my own mortality—”

 

“Or _immortality_?” Pegasus interrupts. Isis decides to silence him and forces a spoonful of om ali into his grinning maw.

 

“Mmm!”

 

“I am _not_ divine,” Isis says as she looks down at the eight-pointed-star on her belly, just behind Pegasus' head. She is doing a poor job of convincing herself of the words, and according to his ne'er-do-well smirk, she didn't convince him at all. “I am no goddess nor combination of goddesses. I am a _person_ who bears their names, and I merely found myself moved by your artwork.”

 

“You don't sound too happy with that explanation either,” Pegasus teases, dipping his finger into the honey jar and offering it to her above. She doesn't protest and licks the digit as she offers Pegasus another spoonful of om ali.

 

“I have just never felt quite that _excited_ before,” Isis says, staring off to the side with a blush and pursed lips. “This place, the candles, the incense, my attire, your artwork, the wine, the food, it all put me in... a mood. _”_

 

“Then I need to put you in that mood more often,” Pegasus drawls, and finds himself mildly upset when she draws the spoon of om ali back and feeds herself with the serving, eyeing him with an irked air.

 

“Are you _really_ that troubled about what you said?” Pegasus asks, taking another sip of wine.

 

“I'm troubled about what I made _you_ say!” Isis confesses, worry at her brow. “If I were to be struck down at this moment, I would have the entire pantheon glaring at my heart and hoping for it to sink like a stone. What I forced you to say is _sacrilege_.”

 

Pegasus' jaw hung open with his eye before he shook his head with a guffaw.

 

“ _Sacrilege_? My goodness, Isis! You act as though you're the only person who gets _excited_ by sultry talk!” He flips himself over so he is on his stomach and places his lips to her navel. “So you take enjoyment in _role-playing_ , a little ritual and ambiance to go along with the words. There are worse proclivities to have in bed, you know.”

 

She places the Om Ali down and puts her hands on his head, scratching his scalp like one would the backside of a cat with an unsure hum.

 

“Now, _I_ personally like to entertain the notion that I courted your holiness with my natural-born talent,” Pegasus begins, placing intermittent kisses to each point of the star on her womb. He can feel worry pulling the corners of her lips into a frown, and he chuckles.

 

“If _you're_ still in denial about such things, however, then you can tell yourself that deep, deep down, the magnanimous Isis Ishtar has an egotistical streak.”

 

“That isn't much better, Pegasus.”

 

He lifts himself from her lap, pushing off the ground with his arms so he is level with her face, and the tip of his nose touches hers.

 

“Then you're going to have to accept that you _are_ divine, and that I am destined to worship you in this life and all others,” he completes the quip with a kiss to her forehead. He moves to sit beside her, reclining against the pillar and swiping another sample of aish el-saraya. He offers the bread to her and helps himself to his own serving when she accepts. They sit in silence, enjoying the warmth of the person beside them, and Isis glances out the window. The stars and moon are gone, replaced by vibrant magenta hues merging with yellow rays.

 

“What will happen to the shrine?” Isis asks suddenly. Pegasus makes a mindful sound as he sips on his wine.

 

“I hadn't thought about it too much,” he answers, placing the curve of his index finger to his chin. “I was so focused on building it up in the studio, I didn't have the mind to think about where it would go after the fact. I promised you could have the artifacts for the museum in Cairo. As for all this marble...”

 

“Are you going to deconstruct it?” Isis is taken aback by how somber her tone is at the thought. Pegasus hums mindfully again as he takes a bite of Baklava.

 

“In a sense, yes,” Pegasus confirms. “It is a shame because I put so much work into it, but it would be a terrible waste to get rid of it all.”

 

“So you're going to keep it?” Isis asks, a tinge of hope at the edge of her voice. Pegasus arches his brow at the tone and smiles over his wine glass.

 

“It'll be done like Abu Simbel,” he decides. “Cut it all up into blocks and put the pieces back together in their new home. We can pick out a room in the castle and decorate it to match the shrine. That way, if you find yourself in 'a mood' again...”

 

She blushes at the implication and stares into her own wine glass, but she does not deny anything this time.

 

“It was exciting for me too, you know,” he says suddenly, reassuringly, putting an arm around her shoulders and placing his lips to her temple. “And since I painted you successfully, I think we could have a lot of fun experimenting with that as well.”

 

“The painting!” Isis gasps, almost dropping her glass at the realization. It was the entire reason he built the shrine to begin with, the reason he slaved away in his studio for one-and-a-half years, toiling with mediums and styles. “Where is it going?”

 

“Hmm, another thing I didn't think too much about,” Pegasus says, looking to the ceiling and swirling his wine about. A bubble of disconcert forms in her stomach.

 

_I don't think he would want it in the tower with the portrait of..._

 

She silences the thought with a warm smile upon looking into his eye. There was no need for foolish inadequacies. She does not exist for Pegasus to compare or replace. He adores her for everything she is, his undying loyalty and devotion proven on canvas, cemented on the marble of the shrine. She trusts him in whatever decision he will make.

 

“Oooh, I know!” he says with a snap of his fingers. “It can go in the dining room! It will look splendid there!”

 

Isis finishes off her glass and shakes her head after she swallows. Perhaps she is mistaken to trust him in _all_ matters pertaining to his artwork.

 

“Pegasus, you can't hang it in the dining room.”

 

“Why not?” His tone is not one of hurt, but of confusion. “If you have any concerns about it in an open space, I think they're unfounded. You're _gorgeous_ in it, every bit as radiant as you are here in my arms. People will be held in awe! It is as though Frazetta himself blessed my hands for that piece. Why wouldn't you want the world to see you as you are, that beauty, that untamed _energy_?”

 

“Because my brothers are flying in to visit and I'm afraid they will go into a fast if they see me in that state.”

 

“... Oh.”

 

Pegasus understands her concerns on the first location, so he opts to hang the portrait in her shrine instead. Like Hieronymus Bosch's _Garden of Earthly Delights_ , it is to be a private piece for personal enlightenment. Besides, he reasons—no, _decide_ _s_ Isis is far too elusive for the view of common guests. It was by his hands he had painted the Egyptian Gods, his will that brought them to the material plain, and the finest of the pantheon would be for his eye alone.

 

Isis also didn't stand to have the portrait hung in the ballroom either when he suggested it. Such a pity.

 

**END**

* * *

Author's Notes: Iconography! Iconography everywhere! Now sit back and have an ice pack to take care of that goose egg I left when I bludgeoned you over the head with it all.

 

Pegasus is no normal man. The forces that be toyed with him and took his beloved away at the tender age of 17 so he would go to Egypt and serve as the catalyst that began everyone's journey to the End Game with his “invention”, Duel Monsters. Pegasus may touch the divine, but as he said often in the story, Isis Ishtar _is_ divine, and it is his hands and his will that can summon the forces behind her powerful names. Such is his talent in the arts, and such is his luck that he channeled the far more intense Ishtar with his tribute as opposed to the more tranquil Isis.

 

All three chapters are named after works by Frazetta.

 

 

 _From Dusk Till Dawn_ was the illustration commissioned for the 1996 film directed by Robert Rodriguez, and it is the poster Pegasus saw in the first chapter. Pegasus' interpretation of Isis is not linked to the vampiric subject matter of the film, but to the image of a goddess towering over mortal man, holding dominion over their fate as the earth burns at her will in the backdrop. The snake at her neck reminds him of the double, intertwining serpent scepter held by none other than Ishtar.

 

_Sun Goddess_ tends to be more obscure as it is not seen by either character or present in the chapter, but the theme of Pegasus' speech is there. She is a goddess that stands at a mountain top with a saber tooth lion as her charge, back arched and arms spread to embrace the sky, one hand open while the other holds a knife. She stands at the peak of her red domain, rules over all, but is willing to sacrifice herself should a cause be great enough to require it of her. Such a piece would remind Pegasus of Isis' mission during Battle City, and the very title _Sun Goddess_ speaks volumes to him, as he announces to the world what Isis is (and more).

 

 

The art book Pegasus has in his collection is _The Fantastic Art of Frank Frazetta: Volume One_. As titled in the final chapter and the namesake of the story, _The Egyptian Queen_ is indeed the cover girl who entices as well as intimidates the viewer, her eyes as ominous as they are tempting. Would _you_ dare to bypass her bloodthirsty leopard and fight the looming guard in the shadows if it meant to partake with her for a night? Only Isis could inspire such dread and desire. She is, as Pegasus claims, his goddess amalgam.

 

Also, Frazetta's women are positively voluptuous. Mmm hmm.

 

Thank you for reading.


End file.
